Into Combat
by rosiesbar
Summary: Part 17 of In All Kinds of Weather: Trapper faces a new challenge: he ventures into the city to seek an apartment at a price that will leave him with cash spare for therapy. Still unsure if Hawkeye will be coming with him, and feeling lonely and a little frightened, his search leads him into a newly-emerging rough part of town that turns out to be a far cry from the hostile slums.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's note:_** _It's been a long time since I updated this. I've had a tough couple of years. I finished a postgraduate degree, sold my apartment, struggled to find a job, lost my mother to Alzheimer's disease, got a job, and bought a house. But I've been chipping away at this in the background. Two years ago, I updated on Christmas Day and I wanted to do the same again. There will be four chapters, and I will try to post regularly at 9pm GMT on a Tuesday for the next four weeks. Part 18 is also underway but needs more work. Hopefully it will follow soon. Given the subject matter, these have been a difficult undertaking in terms of sensitive writing, and I hope you will enjoy them._

* * *

 ** _DAY SEVEN CONTINUED…_**

Trapper stood on the corner of Tremont Street and Berkeley, waiting for a break in the traffic. When one came, he dashed across, narrowly dodging a bus. His goal? The window of a convenience store on the opposite side of the street, where several dozen little white ads flirted at him seductively. And there, in a pleasant shade of the store, he began to browse.

Affordability was the only criteria. If Trapper was to be a man of his word, as he intended to be, all available resources would be set aside for therapy and whatever other help he may need to try and claw his way back to some semblance of being a reasonable human being, which was, as Hawkeye had made perfectly clear, the first deal-breaker if there was any chance of him sticking around.

The second was his sobriety, and that, he felt, was a long, slow climb which he knew he had scarcely begun.

One week now. He'd been off the booze for a whole week. One week since he'd made a terrified promise in that awful motel room. One week, and he was still going. One week, and Hawkeye was still here. That week felt like a miracle, but he still had far to go. He was still fragile, still detoxing, and only just about in a fit state to venture out into the world and begin the process of piecing his life together.

Now, it almost seemed like a bad dream. He hadn't anticipated just how horrific it would be. When he'd sworn off the booze, knowing his choice was either that or die alone in a gutter somewhere, he'd been painfully aware that everything he knew and cared about was hanging in the balance. He hadn't had the chance to really think about it: his future was on the line, his emotions were raw, and he's just felt in his gut that Hawkeye was right. He needed to stop.

He'd read about the DTs in medical school, even witnessed it from the outside, but cold, dry descriptions in textbooks or fleeting encounters with patients couldn't do justice to how it felt from the inside as the symptoms had wracked his body and pushed his mind to breaking point. How Hawkeye had stayed by his side all that time, he had no idea. The last thing he had expected was to wake up from his detox to find a sleep-deprived Hawkeye sitting at the foot of his bed, emotionally and physically exhausted. Trapper was bowled over by his patience; he knew it was more than he deserved. He wasn't sure whether to thank him or to apologise. He knew it couldn't have been easy for Hawkeye, either; he knew there would have been a few choice things said as he was detoxing. But he was through the worst of it, and that, in Trapper's eyes, and seemingly in Hawkeye's, counted for a lot. This was what progress looked like. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun, but it sure beat sweeping things under the rug and making excuses. This, he thought, was progress.

Meanwhile, his anger issues, his shame, his self-loathing– the whole _mess_ that constituted his psyche – they were a long term project, and one he was determined to make good on, too. And then, after that, came the tenuous situation with Hawkeye, whatever that was. He knew well enough how lucky he was. He'd been given another chance, his sins forgiven but by no means forgotten. Not reconciled, but not yet broken. He had never been so grateful in his life. The future was a mysterious, frightening world, but, for now at least, in some form or another, they faced that challenge together.

 _'In all kinds of weather_ ,' Trapper thought to himself as he dropped to a crouch to view the lowest row of vacancies and squinted at the tiny letters that filled the ads.

"What're ya lookin' for, pal?"

The large, cumbersome figure of the store's owner appeared in the doorway.

Trapper hesitated. ' _I'm looking for an apartment to share with my estranged gay lover to see if we can work out our differences and live happily ever after while I deal with a drink problem, unemployment, and a complicated relationship with my sexuality_.' Already, his heart started to pound. The anxiety that he had numbed with alcohol for these past two years was more acute than ever now, and he could feel his body responding to the perceived threat, craving its usual sedative to make the fear manageable once more. Even something as innocuous as glancing over property ads brought the shame rushing forth. He swallowed. "Apartments. Two bedrooms, if possible. No more than seventy – we're on a shoe string."

The owner whistled. "You'll be lucky. I got some more ads inside just got filled out. You wanna take a look?"

Trapper thanked the man and followed him inside. He felt uneasy already. The guy looked like he could be some sort of heavy for the Mafia: over-dressed for his job (which suggested a small business owner with delusions of grandeur), he was old and surly-looking, and clad in a 1920s suit that hugged his broad frame, he had a permanent scowl on his face and a suspicious look in his eye. It took all of Trapper's conscious effort to assure himself that the man was _not_ onto him in some way.

"Apartments… apartments…" The store keeper muttered away to himself as he tossed numerous ads onto the counter. Trapper scanned through them. Most were far too expensive. Only one was even vaguely within their budget. Trapper picked the ad up and scanned through it a second time. It was advertised as 1.5 bedrooms (that meant a bedroom and an oversized closet) and was situated at the Chinatown end of Washington Street. That wasn't too far from the bar where Hawkeye was working. "I think I got somethin'," Trapper announced. "I'll be outta your hair in a second – I just gotta take this down."

The store owner leaned over the counter. And then, without warning, he snatched the ad from Trapper's hand. "Oh, no! You don't wanna live there!"

Trapper bristled, humiliated that his limited budget confined him to the undesirable part of town. "Oh, I don't, huh?"

With the ad clutched disdainfully betwixt thumb and forefinger, the man leaned heavily on the counter. "Trust me, pal. Washington Street's goin' downhill fast. Ever since they started closin' down the whorehouses in the West End, that part of town's just become a hotbed of hookers, homos and bums. You're better off in a cardboard box."

Again, Trapper's hackles rose, but somewhere beyond his anger, there was a part of him that latched onto his words, igniting a strange, fearful excitement within him. "What does that mean?"

"Well… you wouldn't wanna live somewhere like that, would ya?"

Trapper stared at him. His face flushed, and he felt like the man's eyes were piercing right into his soul. "No… I guess not."

And then, as he watched, the store owner screwed the ad up and tossed it into the trash. The information, and the moment, were gone.

Rattled, Trapper turned his attention to the remaining affordable offerings that were paraded in front of him. His eyes downcast, his hand shaking as he picked up the pen, Trapper felt a sweat break out on the back of his neck. The shopkeeper huffed impatiently, drumming his fingers on the counter, while Trapper, as if in a trance, scrawled the addresses across his notepad in a shaky, trembling hand. But his mind was not on it. He could not shake from his head the notion that there was a neighbourhood in this very city actually known for homosexual residents. He'd heard of such a thing in San Francisco – in Eureka Valley, where the military had dumped him and Hawkeye, as well as thousands of other blue discharges – but not in Boston. Not here.

Finishing his notes, Trapper's gaze wandered to the trash can behind the counter. His palms began to sweat. His neck prickled.

The storekeeper shot him a glare. "You done? I got paying customers." He gestured to the handful of people contentedly browsing.

Trapper shuddered, licked his lips, and stepped back. "Yeah, I'm done."

"Good. Now get outta here."

Again, Trapper glanced at the trash can. But he said nothing. Still feeling like he was floating, half out of it, he headed for the door, clutching his pad and pen.

The heat of the city hit him in the face like a wall. Hot, dry, and dusty, thick with the scent of engine oil and hot tarmac and just the faintest hint of sewage. He was buzzing, his breath fast and uneven. He'd started walking, God only knew where, pacing down the sidewalk with little sense of direction or purpose. A few of the passers-by gave him a wide berth – Trapper spotted their wary, suspicious glances as they skirted past him, clutching their children's hands – while others bumped into him as he weaved across the sidewalk.

At last, he ground to a halt.

His thoughts were swimming, his head pounding. Maybe it was the heat? The fumes from the cars? The crowds? The torrent of pedestrians continued around him, and, eventually, inevitably, he was shoved out of the way, stepping off the kerb to loiter unsteadily between a pair of parked cars. As he stood there, swaying in the sun, his gaze fell upon the glimmer of glass across the street, where a bar was just opening up for the start of trade…

Trapper's hands started to shake. ' _No. No, no, no, no_ …'

As he watched, a handful of men who had been gathered around the narrow building, awaiting opening time, made their lonely pilgrimage through the door, heads down.

And Trapper turned away.

Glancing back down the street, his gaze turned instead to the store he had just exited, and, with a grim look of determination, he turned on his heel and headed back.

The bell over the door announced his return. "Yo! I'd like to see that ad, please!"

The storekeeper, who was now dealing with other customers, stared blankly at him. "What are you talkin' about?"

"That ad – the one you threw in the trash – I want it!" Trapper gestured with one shaking hand.

"Seriously? You came back for that?"

"I'm not gonna ask again!" Trapper's voice rose, his hand shaking as he jabbed his finger in the direction of the trash can.

The storekeeper's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me? Over the contents of my garbage can?"

Trapper blinked at him. "No? Maybe? A little. I ain't sure."

With an irritated sigh, the man extracted the ad from his trash. "Goddamn lunatic," he muttered to himself, tossing the balled up piece of card in Trapper's direction. "Here. Take it. I ain't puttin' that in my window."

Trapper's heart was pounding. He clasped the advertisement to his chest and stepped back out in the street. In the safety of the doorway, he carefully unfurled the crumpled paper. His fingers left clammy marks on the paper, joining the coffee stains and other filth that had already seeped in. He laughed. All this panic over a few lines on a piece of card! The telephone number had been rendered illegible by the damp of the garbage can, reduced to a blurry fog of ink, but that didn't matter. If this place was what rumour said it was, he would gladly walk! He had no idea that such a thing even existed as a 'hotbed of homos' – if there was, he could gladly learn to love the 'hookers and bums', just so long as they didn't make a habit of breaking and entering like his old neighbours had done – but if this was it, then maybe, just maybe, he and Hawkeye could finally get some peace in their lives.

* * *

In the absence of a phone number, Trapper did indeed walk. Fortunately for him, it wasn't far, but the sun was hot, his shoes were old, and his respectable 'prospective tenant' suit was stifling. With every block, the buildings became a little more dilapidated, the people he passed in the street a little less smart. Here, a homeless man sat on the step of an abandoned factory; there, a trio of working girls loitered beside a wrecked car, beckoning and smiling to passers-by; and everywhere, embarrassed, shuffling men scanned the boards outside a theatre whose neon displays boasted naked dancing girls.

He turned a corner, and a painted sign in black and white declared in hand-painted cursive: " _You have just entered the combat zone. You have nothing to fear but fear itself."_ It was a message Trapper tried his very best to bear in mind as he ventured into this previously-unknown neighbourhood, which was a far cry from the poor-but-respectable working class areas he and Hawkeye had scraped to afford these past few years. Despite the reassurances of the painted sign, Trapper felt a prickle of unease. This was not the kind of place where he would want to go at night! And yet, were the 'safer' neighbourhoods – neighbourhoods designed to cater for the 'respectable' working class poor – really proving any more secure for the likes of him and Hawkeye?

At last, he found himself facing an old building. There was a bar taking up one corner of it, currently closed, while a narrow doorway and a barred window to the front hinted at an apartment building. The once-ornate stained glass archway above the door was grimy and decayed, several of its panes blocked up with cardboard. To the left was a Chinese buffet, and to the right, a nightclub. Outside the latter, a middle-aged Latina woman was touting for business. She smiled at Trapper, who shook his head. "No thanks, honey. I'm here for the real estate."

She pouted, and tossed her dark curls. "I'm real enough, ain't I?"

Trapper chuckled. There was, he had to admit, an endearing quality to her. Her tight dress and high heels were clearly chosen for their sex appeal, but Trapper noticed, of all things, the ladder in her stocking and the missing button on the front of her dress that had been replaced with one of a different colour. For a moment, Trapper could envisage her at home, hastily stitching the missing button, grumbling that the original had gone missing. 'Real' was definitely the word for her. "That you are, honey," he replied with a smile. "I don't doubt it. But I'm afraid I got other business here. Best of luck to ya." He tipped his hat to her, and turned his attentions back to the address.

As Trapper checked he had the right place and headed for the front door, he heard her address him again. "Ohhh, you're one o' those, huh?"

He froze. Normally, words like that would have been like a red rag to a bull. His pulse was already quickening, his throat tightening, and he struggled to keep himself in check. He glanced at the building he was approaching: funny, there was nothing conspicuous on the outside. Must be something to do with local reputation. Well, that was… hopeful. He turned back to the woman. There was still a smile on her face, and not a hint of menace. Gradually, Trapper relaxed. "Nothin' personal, then," he replied. "You stay safe, now."

"I always do. I got a knife in my garter belt."

Trapper's eyes widened. Her words sounded like a joke, but he really couldn't tell. In the absence of any better words springing to mind, he spluttered, "Great!" and quickly followed with a "Good for you!"

She grinned, and Trapper tipped his hat once more and made his way into the building.

The hallway was small and cramped. An office had been built into the already tiny lobby, eating into the space, and the original stairs on this floor had been ripped out with a narrow, wooden spiral staircase taking their place. The door to the office hung ajar, and Trapper peered round, anxious. "Yo?" He rapped on the door as he stepped up to the threshold.

Inside, he found a mess of paperwork and tools. A lavatory base was sat on its side in one corner, its fixtures and fittings spread out beside it. Against another wall, there were two brand new radiators. A desk filled one wall entirely, and seated at it was a tall, skinny figure, hunched over, talking on a telephone. Trapper surveyed her from the feet up. She was clad in brown corduroy slacks and a cream plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A brown tweed vest had been flung over the top, and her ginger hair was cropped short at the back, with the front swept back and to the sides, pinned messily out of the way with Kirby grips. A pair of round, steel spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and she conversed in a hissed whisper.

"Excuse me? Miss?"

She glanced up, eyes wide, and captured him with the most piercing gaze. Her lips were thin and drawn, her skin pale to the point of sickliness, with a smattering of freckles, and her features gave her a slightly mousey look. She reminded Trapper somewhat of Radar, but when she finished her call and turned to Trapper, he couldn't have been further from the truth.

"What do _you_ want?"

Her accent was thick – Brooklyn, Trapper placed immediately – and her voice was shrill and nasal. She looked at him with a no-nonsense approach, sitting back in her chair with one foot up on the desk.

"Uh… I'm here about the apartment."

The young woman rolled her eyes. "Aw, goddamn it! Can't you _read_? I don't got time to be playin' realtor – not on my pay. Listen! You go away, call the number on the card, an' make an appointment like everybody else!"

"But the number–"

"Make a damned appointment!" she bellowed.

"Okay," Trapper blurted out. "You tell me – when's a good time?"

Lighting up a cigarillo and waving the match out, the woman rolled her eyes at him. "There ain't no such thing as a good time, buddy!" She got to her feet, hitched up her tool belt, and took a drag on her smoke. "I got a boiler blown up on fourth, an' 3C needs a new toilet, an' I got a dumbass supplier who just sent me 48 spark plugs when I asked for light bulbs!" She kicked a cardboard box by the door. "I mean, what am I gonna do with four dozen spark plugs, huh? So why don't you take your ass back to the subway, an' call us up like a good boy? Go on now!"

Grabbing Trapper's arm, she propelled him towards the door.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"I ain't got a minute, buster!"

Trapper grabbed the doorframe as he was dragged unceremoniously back out to the street. "Would you _knock it off_?! Listen, I don't mean to throw your day outta whack, but I ain't got time to be screwin' around here! I'm livin' outta a motel! My place got trashed an' if I don't find somewhere soon, I'm gonna wind up on the street!" He knew he sounded pathetic, but something told him he could be honest with her. And if he was wrong… well, what did it matter?

His words made her pause, and a moment later, the woman from outside dashed up to the front door. "Hey, hey, Dylan! It's okay! Lay off the new boy – he's clean."

The red-head – Dylan, apparently – relaxed a little. " _Now_ you tell me! Jeez, Marisol! Where the hell were you? I was about to toss the poor bugger out on his hiney!"

Marisol pouted. "I had to take a leak!"

Dylan made an irritated grumble, released Trapper, and headed back inside. Grateful, Trapper straightened his tie, and gave Marisol a grateful nod. "Thanks!"

"Go on now!" Marisol grinned, standing before him like a superhero, hands on hips, looking like Wonder Woman in fishnets. "Before she loses her patience with you!"

Trapper laughed – it seemed a little late for that – and followed Dylan inside. He found her rifling through her desk, looking for an application form. She gestured to him, and finally ushered him out of the office, kicking her box of misdelivered spark plugs along the way.

"Dylan, huh?" Trapper grinned as he was ushered back into the lobby. "Funny name for a broad, ain't it? Your parents hopin' for a boy or somethin'?"

Dylan scowled at him. "Who are you callin' a broad?"

"Sorry."

"An' what makes you think my folks had anythin' to do with my name? Not bein' funny, but folks round here – we ain't exactly on the best o' terms with the folks back home, if you catch my drift."

Trapper could relate to that much – he hadn't seen his folks in almost ten years now, and that didn't look to be changing any time soon. "Consider it caught."

"What do they call you, anyway?"

"Dr. McIntyre – John – but I go by Trapper."

Dylan smirked. "Your parents hopin' you'd go into the fur trade?"

Trapper chuckled, and relaxed a little. "Touché…"

Dylan laughed, and offered him a cigarette. "You'll have to forgive our unconventional security," Dylan explained as she showed Trapper upstairs. "We can't trust just anybody. Lot of undercover cops round here, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Trapper nodded. It seemed he was beginning to. "Right."

They continued the ascent, up… up… up, into the highest reaches of the old building

"Marisol lives in 5B, so she'll be your neighbour. She's a nice lady – an' she's out a lot, so she's quiet. I'm in 3C, if you need anythin'."

"An'… what is it that you do?"

"I'm maintenance! What do you think this thing is – a fashion accessory?" She hitched her tool belt up again. "This'll be you." She nodded towards the door to 5A, and unlocked it with a rattle. "Try not to get too excited."

The apartment door opened, the hinges squeaking a rather weak fanfare to their arrival.

It was nothing to get excited about: the floorboards were bare, and the fresh whitewash on the walls looked like it was concealing some rather ancient plasterwork and peeling wallpaper. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling on a grubby cord, but lit up well enough when Trapper flicked the switch. "Spark plug works," he joked with a grin.

"We use sixty watt spark plugs in all the apartments. Keeps the bills down."

Trapper laughed again, feeling more at ease every second.

The apartment was small. The kitchen was separate, leading right off from the living room, and there was barely room for the table and chairs that had been crammed inside. On the other side of the living space, there were two doors.

"Master bedroom's through here," Dylan explained, opening one. The room was spacious enough, although the view was of a brick wall. "Bathrooms on every floor – shared. And there's a fold up bed in the box room." She opened the second door, revealing what was essentially a large closet with a fold up bed shunted to one side, not all that dissimilar to the army cots he and Hawkeye had been landed with in Korea. "It's a 'two bed'," Dylan explained pointedly, with air quotes, "in case anybody asks." She rolled her eyes heavenward.

Trapper's heart soared. It was like she was speaking his language. It was like he had just… walked into a place and somebody _got it._ He'd never felt so relieved in his life! He smiled, suddenly finding himself getting emotional over a walk-in closet with a camp bed in it. "Good to know."

"Your other half comin' for a look around, too?" Dylan asked. "Just so we know to expect somebody."

Her question caught Trapper off guard. He glanced down at the wedding band that encircled his ring finger. From anyone else, the question would have felt like a can of worms just waiting to be opened. Even now, it felt dangerous. Trapper felt himself starting to tense up, and a lump formed in his throat, like his body didn't want him to speak the words out loud and betray himself. He swallowed. "He's at work right now." Trapper forced the words out.

That was it. It was out there. He'd just answered the question, and the world hadn't ended. No careful mincing of words, no switching or avoiding of pronouns, no outright lies about a wife or girlfriend.

At the doorway, Dylan continued the conversation like nothing had happened – like Trapper hadn't taken the biggest step of his life right there in that room. "Well, the bar downstairs is open 'til twelve, so any time he wants to stop by, he can come take a look."

Trapper's hands were shaking. "It's okay, that uh… won't be necessary." He didn't fancy getting into the intricacies of his separation – not with a perfect stranger – but how surreal it was that suddenly _that_ was the complicated part! "I'll take it," he said, perhaps a little hastily. "I got cash on me right now. You got paperwork?" He was already fumbling in his pocket.

He felt like a weight had been lifted – and it was a weight that he'd been carrying around since Korea.

Dylan nodded. "Right. Okay, so that's sixty-eight fifty a month, one month up front, and another for the deposit. Oh, and twenty bucks security for your first quarter. So that's…"

"A hundred and fifty-seven dollars." Trapper went cold. He had one-forty in his wallet, and that was everything they could afford. They'd paid for ten nights at the motel up front to get a cheaper rate, so possibilities of a refund were slim, and Hawkeye wouldn't get paid until Friday. "Twenty bucks security? But ain't that the same as a deposit?"

She looked at him like he was a moron. "No! Security is twenty dollars a quarter – every quarter. Due on the dot, or you're puttin' us all in danger."

Trapper's eyes widened. "You mean like… 'security' security? This is a _mob_ thing?"

Laughing, Dylan shrugged. "In a manner of speakin', yeah." She said.

"What kinda _manner_ are we talkin' here?"

Another laugh. " _Boston P.D._! We pay the cops off, so they don't come round bangin' on doors, an' they look the other way when the super 'forgets' to run background checks on new tenants!"

Trapper needed to sit down – this was almost too good to be true! But… "I'm seventeen short," he confessed, wiping his palms on his suit. "But I got one-forty burnin' a hole in my back pocket that I can give you right now!"

She waved her cigarillo at him dismissively. "No dice. _Everybody_ pays security."

"Please! Honey, I _need_ this apartment! This is all I got!"

"If I make an exception for you, I gotta make an exception for everybody! Ain't nobody 'round here rollin' in money. The super can't put your application in 'less you pay your dues. Too much risk."

"Well, can ya hold it for me 'til tomorrow? We can get you the full amount – Friday at the latest – but this is all we got right now. Come on, honey – please?"

Dylan pursed her lips, and put her hands on her hips. "First of all, you call me 'honey' one more time, I'm gonna break your nose. Second of all… you need to speak to the super."

"Where can I find him?"

Dylan snorted. "C'mere." She gestured to Trapper to follow her, locking the apartment behind them. They followed the creaky spiral staircase to the ground floor, back out into the street. Then, turning, she headed for the door of the bar downstairs, and pulled another set of keys from her pocket. "Step into my office, please…" The door opened, and Trapper was ushered inside to the darkened drinking establishment.

The smell of oak, liquor and cigarette smoke assaulted his nostrils. The bar was old, like the rest of the building. The décor looked like something out of the twenties, save for a few mod cons like the jukebox and the electric lights that were suspended over the dance floor. The leather seats were ripped, the woodwork tarnished, and the art deco tiles on the walls could have given the place quite a bit of value, had they been carefully preserved – which they hadn't.

The lights were off, and Dylan made no move to remedy that as she locked the door behind them, pushed past him and headed for a back room. "Have a seat," she tossed casually over her shoulder before vanishing.

And Trapper was left alone.


	2. Chapter 2

This was, absolutely, the last place in the world Trapper wanted to be on his own. In the empty stillness of the bar, his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the line of bottles glinting in the daylight that penetrated the gloom through the grubby windows, calling to him. Trapper's palms grew sweaty. His hand started to shake. _'Shit_!' He could hear his breath growing louder and more rapid in the silent room, and he had to turn away to focus on something – anything! – to take his mind off it.

The woman in the red dress made for a welcome distraction.

The sound of the office door banging closed heralded her arrival and made Trapper jump out of his skin. For a moment he had thought Dylan had returned, but this was someone new: a slender yet powerful-looking black woman, stunningly beautiful, and dressed like she had stepped off the cover of Vogue. Trapper looked up, blinking a little as she drew closer. She was tall – as tall as Trapper, even without her heels – and her head was haloed by the most immaculate back-combed blonde beehive money could buy.

She cast him over, a curious expression on her face. "Can I help you?"

Trapper stared back, a little unsure what to say. He'd seen drag queens perform in shows before – in a somewhat more 'risqué' geisha house in Tokyo, which Hawkeye had taken him to – but there was a big difference between a floor show and a civilised conversation. And she was dressed more for business than pleasure, her dress smartly cut, tailored, and stylish. And now, Trapper, being the new boy on the gay block, he felt horribly out of his depth, intimidated by both her beauty and presence.

"Uh… I… uh…" Stumbling over his words, Trapper wiped the sweat from his brow as he tried to push the desire for a Scotch out of his mind and focus on the conversation in hand. He failed. Reaching out, he extended a hand to steady himself on the bar, suddenly queasy.

"Are you feelin' okay?" The woman in the red dress grew closer, her head cocked and eyes narrowed as she surveyed her peculiar customer with a note of concern.

"Actually, now that you mention it…" Only now did Trapper realise that he had collapsed onto one of the bar stools, his legs having had a bit of a funny turn around the same time the rest of him had. This place... the _smell_ of the spirits in the air!

"Can I get you a drink?"

" _No_!" Trapper almost shouted. That was the last thing he wanted! "No, no, please, I can't."

"Of _water_!" She gave him a pointed look, reaching over the bar for a glass. "We don't give liquor away for free here. Gotta make a livin' somehow."

"Oh. Oh, uh… yeah, thanks."

As she filled the glass from the tap, Trapper removed himself from the temptation of the bar, settling himself in one of the booths by the window, where he could watch the foot traffic outside and try to forget how much he would like a belt right now.

A glass of water was placed in front of him, and he smiled up at his kindly hostess. "Thanks."

"You looked like you needed it."

"You got that right!" Trapper gave a chuckle as he gratefully took a sip of his drink – she'd added ice and a lemon as well! "You work here?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, I'm just the friendly neighbourhood burglar – I slipped in the back to empty the cash register but decided to take a load off an' start waitin' on random strangers just for the kicks." She smiled and held out her hand. "I'm Audrey."

Trapper shook the offered hand, mindful of her long, scarlet nails. "John McIntyre. I go by Trapper."

"So, what brings you here?" Audrey slipped into the booth opposite him, hands clasped neatly in front of her, fingers carded into a perfect, delicate V, like a tiny mountain with blood red nails at the peak.

"I'm here about the apartment upstairs," Trapper explained as he gulped down some more water. "The chick… um, I mean the maintenance lady… she's gone to find the super for me, see if I can't put it on a reserve."

"Oh, she has, huh?"

"Yeah. I ain't quite got the dough for the deposit. I'm kinda… between places right now, livin' outta a motel out on Route One. A guy in a convenience store said this area had somethin' of a… a reputation. I thought… I thought I might be safer here." The words were a struggle. Even here, even now. He knew well enough what he'd just insinuated.

Audrey nodded, and reached over to pat his hand gently. "A lot of people think that, honey. And we do try, we do try."

Relaxing a little, Trapper finished his drink and set the glass down, sighing. "You been workin' here long?"

Audrey gave a shrug and folded her arms. "Long enough. I know the way things operate in this neighbourhood, and I do the best I can with the work I do."

Trapper smiled. "Cabaret?"

Audrey blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"I'm guessin'... from the costume."

"Costume?" Audrey pursed her lips, her eyes widening a little in an expression that was more irritation than genuine confusion.

Trapper paused, realising in one awful moment that he'd just opened his mouth and inserted his foot. "I uh... I mean, you said you worked here."

"I do."

"And uh... I mean... not that I got much experience, but last time I saw a drag queen–"

"I'm the supervisor."

She stared at him, arms folded, spine ramrod straight, and Trapper felt like he wanted the ground to open up. "Oh. I... I'm sorry. I-I-I-I-I feel we've got off on the wrong foot here." As if on reflex, he stood, as if somehow he could reset the whole conversation if he just took his seat once more. As he did, his hand knocked the glass, which went flying and smashed onto the floor. "Oh, shit! I'm sorry!"

" _Oh_ , hush your flappin'!" Her voice was loud, and the hand she banged on the table wasn't much quieter.

Trapper hushed.

"And sit down."

Trapper sat.

"Now lookie here, new boy," Audrey explained, one red talon wagging at Trapper like an unusually glamorous schoolmistress, "first of all, the only _drag_ I wear for _my_ job is when I turn up at the landlord's office in a suit an' tie to drop the rent cheques off at the end of the month. And secondly, if you're gonna get along here in the Combat Zone you can't go fittin' like that every time you learn somethin' new about somebody that don't fit in with your previously-assumed world view. There's all sorts o' folks around here, an' some of 'em do things that'll make your eyes pop out an' your hair turn straight. But we learn to pay it no mind here, 'less somebody's gettin' hurt – in which case, _we mind_."

Nodding mutely, Trapper hung on her every word.

"But," she continued, her tone softer now, hands planted firmly on the table, "if you're lookin' for somewhere you can... fit in, be yourself, feel safe, then you got it. Our only condition is that you extend that same favour to folks other than yourself."

Suitably chastised, Trapper nodded, laying his hands on the table, palms down, as he contemplated the offer. "I can do that," he replied. The irony was not lost on him that he found it far easier to be respectful and understanding of other people than of himself. Or of Hawkeye, for that matter. There was something about Audrey's proud defiance in the face of insult that reminded Trapper of Hawkeye, and yet if Hawkeye were to have a soap box moment like that in public, Trapper would most likely die of shame. The hypocrisy of his foolish mind was not lost on him...

In the silence that followed, Audrey seemed to survey him from her vantage point across the table. Her eyes narrowed, and a small smile appeared on her face, like she took pleasure in the act of reading him. "Let me guess," she mused, her voice gentle, not quite trusting, but not accusing either, "you're new to all this. Fresh outta a nice, safe marriage, wife tossed you out, trying to... find yourself? Not even had the guts to take her ring off your finger, you're so unsure of yourself."

Trapper laughed. How could she be so wrong and so right? "You're... close, sorta. But the uh... the findin' part is... takin' a little longer than expected." He paused, toying with his wedding band. "I've been livin' with a guy these past eight years. He gave me this." Trapper waved his hand and wiggled his fingers.

"Oh? So you're all settled?"

Shaking his head, Trapper dropped his head. "We ain't together right now. Things... fell apart, y'know? An' it weren't even him. Not even a little bit. It was all me. We're... kinda separated right now while I try an'... sort myself out."

Audrey regarded him through half-lidded eyes – eyes that seemed to know so much, must have _seen_ so much. "You drink," she assessed with barely a moment's thought.

It wasn't that hard for her to figure that one out, based on Trapper's response when he thought she was offering him liquor. He nodded. "I did," he confessed, "up until a week ago."

For a moment, Audrey's gaze flickered across to the bar, but she didn't say a word.

In the gap in the conversation, Trapper felt compelled to continue, to _explain_ himself. "I uh... I ain't ever really been comfortable with myself, y'know? It's been gettin' worse these past coupl'a years. I get in these... dark moods over my life an'... an' who I am. An' then I get bombed an' I... I take it out on him." The confession felt like he'd just purged something he'd been choking on. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or throw up, and so, in the absence of any clear course, he did something that was a strange combination of the two and suffered a sudden coughing fit. ' _Oh yes_ ,' he thought, ' _a psychiatrist is gonna have a field day with me_.' Standing, he groped about himself for a handkerchief, feeling himself turning red. He couldn't believe he'd just divulged all of this to a perfect stranger! And the supervisor of the apartment he wanted to rent, no less! What a fool! "I'm sorry," he spluttered, failing to find a handkerchief and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm probably not what you're lookin' for. Forget it."

"Sit down!" Audrey said again with a roll of her eyes. Her hand dipping into a pocket on the front of her dress, she tossed him a handkerchief. "Such a drama queen! You think you're the only one round here with problems? Everybody here got problems! Problems come with the territory. I got kids young as fourteen tossed out by their parents. I got girls _and_ boys livin' just across the hall turnin' tricks to make ends meet, an' me an' my girl Dylan doin' our best to keep an eye on 'em, makin' sure none o' those johns turn nasty. I got a disgraced politician, one disinherited debutante, an' just about every one of us carryin' around the usual scars and baggage that come from goin' through life labelled a queer. You wanna talk problems? We got problems." Here, she gave a small nod. "You want help? We can do that, too."

Trapper stared at her. It was like something was falling into place. From a coincidental conversation in a store, it seemed he'd found what he was looking for. But... there was one catch. "Look, uh... you know my situation here. If I had the money I'd throw the deposit down right now, but I'm short the security. I got one-forty an' that's it, but I can get you the rest by Friday."

"Hmm, you said." Audrey pursed her lips and turned to glance over her shoulder towards the office. "Well, let's see if we can't fix somethin' up for you. _Dylan_! Honey, you back there?" A pause, and she raised her voice a little more. " _Dylan_!"

Trapper winced. The office door banged in Dylan's wake, and the bespectacled caretaker returned. " _There_ you are!" she gestured to Audrey. "When did you come down here?"

"Delivery, about ten minutes ago."

"Huh. I've been callin' the apartment."

"On the _phone_? We live upstairs!"

"Five storeys up!"

"You got _legs_ , don'tcha?"

Dylan snorted and hitched up her tool belt. "Fuck that," she said.

Giggling, Audrey turned her attention back to Trapper, as Dylan handed her a crisp, white form. "Okay, new boy, listen up. I like you. You got a lot going on right now, and you're clearly in a fix, but you're our kind of people, and that counts for a lot round here. Let's have your details, and we'll see what we can't do about that security money on Friday, huh?"

Sighing with relief, Trapper dug around in his pocket for a pen, and began to fill in the forms.

"Oh, and one other thing," Audrey added. "You said somethin' about... a drink problem?"

Trapper swallowed. "Is that gonna affect my application?"

Audrey shook her head. "Nuh-mm. But just so's you know, you come into my bar, no matter what time, no matter who's on duty, you're gettin' served nothin' that ain't OJ, soda, or ice water. You got me?"

Trapper nodded, and smiled. "I think we're on the same page there." Turning his attention back to the form, Trapper felt a warm glow starting up in his very core, and for the first time since he'd left the motel that morning, he felt himself relax. But, when he got to the bit about employment, he paused. "I uh... I ain't workin' right now, but... Hawkeye – that's my... well, he's my _former_ , but he's... y'know – he's still helpin' me out, so maybe he could..."

With a nod, Audrey waved him on. "Just bring him in sometime between now and Friday and we'll sort something." She winked, and Trapper managed a weak smile.

He continued with the form, filling out the bits on Hawkeye's job as best he could. Above him, he noticed Dylan lean down to whisper in Audrey's ear. He couldn't make out the words, but he saw Audrey nod, and Dylan's expression turn serious.

"Is there a problem?" Trapper asked, half expecting someone to yank the rug out from under him any second.

"No," Audrey assured him.

"Just bring this guy in," Dylan replied, considerably less breezy. "If he's payin' your way, I'd like to talk to him."

Trapper flushed a little at the implication. It sounded so... _bad_ : Hawkeye paying his bills, his rent! "I'm not a freeloader or nothin'!" he protested, arguing with an objection that had not even been made. "I'm tryin' to get a job! This ain't permanent!" Damn right it wasn't. Nothing about his current arrangement with Hawkeye was permanent. Everything was in flux.

"We get it," Dylan muttered, swaying to and fro with her thumbs hooked into her belt. "That's not my problem. Your job, his job... it don't matter what you put in there, just so long as the rent gets paid on time. But I _do_ wanna see the guy who's payin' it. Audrey's soft on people, but I ain't. Bring your guy. We'll talk."

With these words, Dylan took herself off back to her little office, presumably to continue her pursuit of lightbulbs. Trapper watched her go, and then grinned at Audrey. "She's a real firecracker, your girlfriend."

Audrey raised an eyebrow. "A little respect, _please_." She smirked, a look of delighted self-satisfaction filling her eyes. "That's my _wife_."

* * *

Trapper dashed across town to the agreed meeting point as quickly as his legs could carry him. He arrived footsore and exhausted, relieved to find that Hawkeye was waiting patiently.

"Where have you _been_? I've been driving around the block here for the past twenty minutes!"

Well, maybe not that patiently.

"So far I've had two accusations of kerb-crawling, three offers of a good time, and I'm cultivating a beautifully asymmetrical sunburn on my left arm."

Trapper gave a grateful sigh as he dropped into the passenger seat of the Oldsmobile, wrestling with the seatbelt. "Sorry," he said as they pulled away. "I got caught up somewhere."

Hawkeye took his eyes off the road momentarily to give Trapper a pointed look. "Caught up or tanked up?"

Trapper gave him a look. "You don't trust me?"

"You're not trustworthy."

"Granted."

"Let me smell your breath." Hawkeye leaned over.

Trapper rolled his eyes. Hawkeye's distrust of him stung, no matter how well founded it was. "Oh, come on, Hawk!"

"We _agreed_ on this!"

"Would you keep your eyes on the road already?! You're gonna kill us!"

"Then hurry up and breathe on me so we don't die!"

Relinquishing, Trapper exhaled in the desired direction, and Hawkeye, mercifully, returned his attention to the road.

"Okay, I concur. You're clean. Day seven, and counting." They pulled onto the main route towards the freeway, merging into the rush hour traffic and slowing to a crawl as the daily snarl-up closed in around them. Hawkeye stared into the middle distance, his fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel. "One week. I'm proud of you." The words were spoken softly, barely audible over the din from the outside.

Trapper turned, his eyes widening to hear praise from Hawkeye's lips. Thus far, Hawkeye had assumed an almost doctorial role, supporting Trapper through his detox the way a medical professional would. The future of their relationship hung in the balance, but Hawkeye acted as though he had no emotional investment in Trapper's recovery whatsoever, holding his hand and wiping his forehead with calm resilience and detached, clinical sympathy. Trapper sensed it was a barrier he'd put up deliberately – after all, they were technically separated, in theory if not in circumstance, and Hawkeye couldn't let himself be drawn into feeling too sorry for Trapper if he failed – but those four little words, spoken from the heart, were the closest he'd gotten to showing feeling.

"Thanks, Hawk," Trapper replied, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You're welcome." Hawkeye gave a nod, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigated the busy freeway.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Trapper longed for Hawkeye to turn around and grin one of his big, silly, soppy grins at him – the kind of thing he used to do that drove him nuts when they were first together and would terrify the life out of him – or for him to start reaching across to hold his hand as he had once done whenever they had sat, bored, in a never-ending tail-back, only for Trapper to refuse on account of other drivers being able to see. Hawkeye had been so reckless at one time, so unapologetic in his love for Trapper, his affection boundless. Trapper hadn't appreciated it until it was far too late.

There were a thousand words he could have said, expressing his regret, his guilt, in that very moment. But it wasn't the time. Maybe it never would be, and that would be something he'd just have to deal with. And so, instead, they sat in silence, side by side, each quietly contemplating his own thoughts as the vast snake of traffic carried them onwards to their temporary home.

* * *

The proprietor at the motel was, as Trapper has predicted, determinedly reluctant to offer any refunds. He'd cursed Trapper out in both English and Italian, and then gone off on some rant about customers always wanting something for nothing.

So, _that_ was a dismal failure. Defeated, Trapper left the office and hauled himself back across the parking lot to his and Hawkeye's little room, whereupon he threw himself on his bed with a feeling of both despondency and rage.

He hated this place.

The motel room had, over the past week, gone from cosy bolt hole to a cluttered purgatory. With their stuff piled up in every corner, navigating their cramped space was only fractionally easier than finding things – which was impossible. It was like their quarters in Korea, with far too many things and far too little, all at the same time, crammed into a space far too small.

The bathroom door opened with a creak. Wrapped in the largest of the motel's tiny, scratchy towels, Hawkeye tiptoed through the boxes, making his way to his bed. After stubbing his toe on a suitcase, he finally reached his goal, flopping onto the thin mattress of his bed, cursing and clutching his foot.

As Hawkeye wailed and yelped in agony, somebody in the next room thumped the wall. Hawkeye thumped back. "Yourself!"

Trapper twitched. What their neighbour took offense? What if they came knocking? What if something about their situation – two guys sharing a room – gave them away? What if…?

Trapper tried his best to calm his racing thoughts. His hands clenched and unclenched. Christ, what he wouldn't give for a…

No, mustn't think like that. He should think of something else, _do_ something else. "Hey, Hawk?"

"Yeah?"

Trapper looked over. Hawkeye was currently attempting to wrestle his boxer shorts on underneath his towel. Flushing a little, Trapper looked away. "Uh… I was wonderin', d'ya fancy goin' out somewhere tonight?"

Hawkeye's head whipped round. "Going out?"

Trapper backpedalled. "I didn't mean like… ' _out'_ out. Just, y'know, go do somethin', 'stead o' hangin' around here like a couple'a loose ends."

Towelling his hair, Hawkeye continued to gaze at him. "You feeling antsy?"

This, Trapper knew by now, was code for 'do you feel like you want a drink?' Hawkeye had, over the past week, adopted numerous way of asking about Trapper's drinking without ever actually using those exact words. "I've been better. It ain't so bad though. I mean, it ain't exactly all sunshine an' rainbows in here–" he tapped his head with one finger – "but… I kinda just wanna… show you somethin'."

Hawkeye froze. "Forgive my vanity, but if you're planning on making some grandiose, romantic gesture, I'm going to have to stop you right there…"

"It ain't nothin' like that!" Trapper did his best to pretend that didn't hurt. "I just wanna show ya… a place I found."

"An apartment?"

"Sorta. It's a little more than that."

"A _house_?"

"No. Well, it's kind of a… building. An apartment building, an' a… a bar."

Hawkeye's response said it all before he even opened his mouth. His shoulders sagged, his eyes widened. Everything about him _radiated_ disappointment. "A _bar_? Are you kidding me? After all this? After everything...?" Hawkeye threw his hands up, and spun in tiny circles on the small space of carpet that was occupied by neither furniture nor cases. "I mean how... _how_? How could you think... or did thinking even enter into this? Or even... or..." Finally, bereft of words, he grabbed his case. "Right, screw this! I'm going."

"Hawkeye, no!"

"No! I'm done here! You want to self-destruct? Go do it in your own time!"

"Hawk, stop!" Trapper leapt across the room, grasping Hawkeye's hand with both of his own in some ridiculous parody of a romantic proposal. "It's okay! I'm _not_ having a drink... I just..."

Hawkeye stilled for a moment, exasperated, his breath escaping in an impatient hiss. "You just _what_ , Trapper?"

"Don't get mad. It's not what you think!" His fingers trembled a little as he squeezed Hawkeye's hand. "I just... I gotta do this! Let me do this _one_ thing, an' if ya don't like it, you can walk away!"

Hawkeye stared at him, wide eyed, caught by surprise by this strangely passionate display. "If you kiss me," he said firmly, "I'll punch you in the mouth."

And it was only now that Trapper realised he was subconsciously drawing Hawkeye closer

"I ain't gonna kiss you," Trapper replied, more than a trace of regret slipping through. "I'm just askin' you to trust me. That's all. D'you trust me?"

"Right now? No!"

" _Please_? Just this one thing!"

Relaxing a little, Hawkeye pulled his hand free, his fingers slipping easily from Trapper's weakened grasp. "Show me what you're gonna show me. Then – _then_! – " he pointed an angry finger in Trapper's face " - we'll see about the trust part."

* * *

 _ **Author's note:**_ This has been my first attempt at writing Original Characters, and so any feedback would be very much appreciated. I don't consider myself to be an expert in writing about social issues, but I have tried my best to do my research. Any guidance readers can offer with regards to racial or transgender issues, particularly in the historical context and in an American setting (I'm a Brit), would be greatly appreciated, so if anything stands out, then do please drop me a message or leave feedback. I'd love to hear your thoughts. These ladies will be featuring heavily over the coming sections and so I'm eager to hone them to perfection, as I've grown rather attached to them!


	3. Chapter 3

There was a parking lot just outside the city limits, and so they left the car and jumped on the subway, skipping the fare, of course. There was a time Hawkeye would have been gleeful in his rebellion, but on this occasion their lawlessness was a mere necessity rather than a thrill. He sat silent, arms folded, long legs stretched out across the aisle, not quite trusting of his estranged partner and this flight of fancy he had embarked upon. Trapper sat beside him, trying to let his thoughts and his eyes wander. The rational part of his brain told him it would be easier to just sum up his discovery to Hawkeye in words, but there was some foolish, excited part of him that wanted him to see it with his own eyes, without prior knowledge. He wanted Hawkeye to have that same delightful shock as he'd had. He wanted to see his face light up in realisation. He wanted to see him take joy in this, revel in the discovery. And, perhaps, part of him wanted Hawkeye to be stunned that Trapper had found it, that Trapper had walked into this place and found not another bottle to crawl into the bottom of, but a lifebelt to cling to, a community to meet, new people to...

' _New people to...'_ what? Date? Screw?

The more he thought on it, the more it scared him. What if Hawkeye got jealous? Or saw it as an attempt to make him jealous? Or saw no difference between this and any other bar, something Trapper should stay away from?

Suddenly, his plan seemed like a foolish delusion of a man desperate to impress a lover he had already lost, or to inspire jealousy, either to manipulate or to hurt. The relentless march of 'what-ifs' darkened Trapper's mood, and he sought distraction in his surroundings. The lights flashed past the window in rhythmic bolts. Above the glass, Trapper noticed an ad for Jim Bean. He turned away and focussed on the window once more.

The night air was pleasantly cool as they emerged from the subway at Boylston. Hawkeye shivered in his thin summer shirt and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. But Trapper? Trapper was too distracted to feel the cold. There was something in his insides that seemed to warm him, at times a glow of anticipation, at others, a tense nervousness. Each step took them closer to their destination. He already knew the route, already knew where to find the little sanctuary he had discovered, and, as he turned the corner onto Washington Street, he could already hear the Marv Johnson crooning from the jukebox inside the little redbrick building. There were lights shining from the grubby windows, and in those lights there swayed the bodies of human beings, swaying in pairs in the space within.

"It's this one," Trapper said, somewhat subdued now he was standing at the threshold of... whatever this moment would turn out to be. He gave a weak gesture towards the building, then crossed the street in front of Hawkeye, hands shoved unceremoniously in pockets. ' _Don't blow this. Don't say anything stupid. Don't act like it's a date. And whatever you do, don't have a drink._ '

The last one was academic, of course. Nobody would serve him liquor here. That was part of the charm.

They didn't even have to wait until they got inside. Near the sheltered doorway of the bar, a sailor was leaning up against the wall, making cosy conversation with a young man in a tight fitting polo shirt. Trapper skirted past them quietly, faintly aware of a strange, tingling sensation in his gut halfway between fear and excitement. He saw Hawkeye's head turn, watched as he observed them for a few seconds, and then held the door for him.

The music was suddenly louder, the lights brighter. A couple of dozen bodies milled around before them, joined at the hip, pressed against one another. Mostly guys. A few girls. A few somewhere in between, or off on some glorious, unique tangent of their own. The rules no longer applied: gender, sexuality, propriety, all the divisions had been blown smack out of the water and the categories, like the people, wrapped around one another and spun away into a glorious, beautiful chaos.

Trapper hovered by the door, Hawkeye at his side, staring with dazed delight, and a little trepidation, at the joyous display. He'd grasped the theory when he'd spoken to Audrey and Dylan, but the reality quite took his breath away.

A bony finger in his ribs brought him back to himself, and he turned to glance almost apologetically at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye didn't look angry – thank heaven for small mercies – but he didn't look at bowled over as Trapper had expected, either. A bemused smile played across his lips and, shaking his head a little, he shot Trapper a look. "This is a gay bar," he announced.

Trapper shrugged and smiled. "Looks like."

"You found a gay bar."

Another shrug. "Yeah."

"No." Hawkeye prodded him again. " _You_ found a gay bar. _You_. You who won't even use the _words_ without having a meltdown or punching something! _You_!"

Trapper didn't know what to say. He knew Hawkeye was right: his attitude over the past ten years had been a long, slow, downhill struggle, but somehow, standing here surrounded by all these people, all this happiness, it seemed so very foolish. He wasn't naïve enough to think this epiphany would be enough to cast away all his demons, but, for now at least, it was like he had let some light into his soul by opening the door to this place, and sent a few of them scurrying for a while. And so, he smiled. "I did," was all he could day.

"How?" Hawkeye grabbed his arm, gesturing manically, his head shaking like he was trying to look in all directions at once. "How? I mean... I mean... I mean... how did you...? _How_?"

"I don't know!"

"What do you _mean_ you don't know? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into places like this? To even _find_ them? I mean, you have to _know_ somebody! And the only somebody you know is _me_ and I've never... Did _you_? Know somebody?!" Suddenly, Hawkeye froze, his eyes widened and he grasped Trapper's arm. "Oh God, who do you know?"

Oh, and there was that jealousy Trapper had been worried about. "Hawkeye, no. It ain't that."

"Oh, hey, no. Not my business. You gotta... uh... you gotta go what you... uh..." He threw his hands up and turned away.

"Hey! You ain't listenin' to me! I said there's nobody!" Hawkeye looked at him, seeming placated but a little sullen. It was difficult, over the music and the chatter, to sound reassuring, but Trapper tried. "I went into a store," he explained, "and the guy had an ad for a place. It was cheap. Real cheap. An' then he looked at it an' he said it was..." Oh, and there were his demons again. Crawling up the inside of his windpipe, strangling his words. He couldn't quite bring himself to repeat the phrase spoken by the storekeeper that morning, and so, he moved on. "He said the place had a _reputation_ , y'know. An' then he tossed the ad in the trash. So, I made 'im hand it over. An' then I came here."

It was a succinct little summary of his morning's activities, for sure. He's missed the part where he nearly had a nervous breakdown in the street, where he'd been 'vetted' by one of the local working girls, and where he'd had to beg the maintenance woman for a viewing appointment, and the supervisor for a few days' grace to save for the deposit. But it covered the basics.

"And the apartment?"

"Upstairs." Trapper nodded upwards. "Fifth floor."

"Oh. Fifth floor. Is it nice?"

"Not really."

"Do you care?"

"Also no."

Hawkeye gave a snort of a laugh. "Well, colour me not shocked."

"It's pokey as hell," Trapper confessed, "an' it looks like somebody whitewashed over the rot. Kitchen's like somethin' outta a motel..."

"Well, that's okay. You never cook anyway."

"... livin' room ain't much bigger, and the bedroom's got some awful wallpaper, looks like somethin' my grandma embroidered for my kids' nursery. But... it's _here_ , an' it's got a little spare room attached, in case you're... plannin' on stickin' around." With these words, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away, hoping it wasn't a dead giveaway for the fact that he sort of hoped he was.

He heard Hawkeye pause for a moment, take a deep breath, and then, nodding in understanding, he asked one more question: "You wanna live here? You? Ye of perpetual denial and determined closet-dwelling? This is where you see yourself?"

' _Us_ ,' Trapper wanted to protest, but he wasn't about to say that out loud. He knew only too well, in an ideal universe, the life he envisioned here would involve Hawkeye. Maybe that was an influence? Maybe too much of one? But even if that life wasn't to be, this wasn't something he wanted to bury anymore. It had taken him ten years to get to this point, and there was no way in hell he was walking away now! He was seeing this through. Besides, even if he was single, he was still walking around with a blue discharge on his file. He'd left his wife for another man, had his kids taken away by the family courts because of it. The past ten years may have been a long, downward spiral of denial and self-loathing, but at least he _knew_ this was part of himself now. And, with or without Hawkeye, he could either deal with it or keep digging.

Yes. Trapper would never have admitted it so little as a month ago, he felt he _belonged_ here. And so, in answer to Hawkeye's question, and without a word of a lie, he replied: "Yeah, I do."

Hawkeye regarded him with a look that revealed more than a little scepticism, and yet, once more, a reserved smile appeared on his face. It wasn't an enthusiastic smile, and Trapper could only guess at the dozen or so questions that must be circling his brain, but, for now, he didn't utter them. "Nice going," he said at last, clapping a hand to Trapper's back.

"The rent's under budget but it's got a little protection racket attached to it – twenty bucks a quarter to keep the cops away."

"Huh. And to think we used to settle for apples."

"I figure it's a worthwhile expense..."

"I sense a 'but'?"

"... but it puts us over our hundred-and-forty bucks for the down payment."

"Ah. I see our dilemma."

"They said they'll hold it until Friday... _if_ ya don't mind frontin' me another seventeen bucks outta your next paycheck."

He saw Hawkeye deflate a little, and he half expected him to explode. "Figures."

This resigned, subdued Hawkeye was not what Trapper had wanted. "Hey, you don't have to..."

"No, no!" Hawkeye waved him off with a shake of his head. "I said I'd support you! We're in this together. Until... y'know, we're not." He shrugged and averted his gaze momentarily to stare at the wall like it held some mystical window to the future. "Besides, how _else_ were you planning on raising the cash?"

Trapper shrugged. "I dunno. Pawn somethin'? Sell somethin'? Beg? Borrow? Steal?"

"Oh, don't give me that." Hawkeye gave him a nudge and rolled his eyes. "Now, who do I talk to about signing up as your sponsor for this new chapter in self-discovery you seem to be embarking upon?"

Trapper wanted to protest. Hawkeye acquiesced to his plea so easily, and his generosity almost seemed too much! Trapper had expected some resistance, some bitterness, but Hawkeye was already scanning the crowds with a purposeful look in his eye and a steely determination in his jaw, and Trapper wasn't about to argue further. He, too, glanced about and spotted two familiar figures: Dylan's red hair shone like a beacon as she flitted about behind the bar, sleeves rolled halfway up her pale, skinny arms, while Audrey flourished a cocktail shaker with almost superhuman prowess, all the while smiling and chattering away to her patrons, making it seem all the more effortless.

"See the bar girls?" Trapper pointed out his new acquaintances. "The one washin' the empties is Dylan – she's maintenance – and the one slingin' the cocktail shaker is Audrey – she's the super. I had a long chat with them when I stopped by. They're real nice ladies, if a little scary. _And_ they're a couple."

"Of _course_!" Hawkeye commented with a smile, because the only thing that could make this place _more_ queer was if it had a lesbian couple on the bar and running the building.

"C'mon, we'll go say hello."

"They look busy."

"They wanted to meet you!"

"Oh, they did? What did you tell them?"

Trapper smirked at Hawkeye's quip, and began to weave his way through the customers to the bar. Audrey set down the drink she was serving, and glanced up as Trapper approached. A wide grin spread across her features.

"Well, if it isn't the new boy. We didn't scare you off, I see."

Smiling warmly, Trapper shook his head. "Not a chance. I like ya too much."

"Charmer!" Audrey shot back, and batted her eyelashes. And now, she turned her attention to Hawkeye. "And this must be Doctor Pierce?"

"Call me Hawkeye," Hawkeye replied, extending his hand to her.

"Come again, sweetheart? Speak up."

"Hawkeye. Like 'Last of the Mohicans'," Hawkeye enunciated over the music.

Audrey shook his hand firmly. "A pleasure. Now, if you two lovely gentlemen could just step this way..." With a gracious air, she led the pair of them to the end of the bar, where a narrow doorway led through to the back rooms. Here, she paused, out of earshot, to exchange a few words with Dylan, and it was Dylan who stepped forward to show Hawkeye through.

"Just him," she stated firmly, holding up a hand to Trapper. And then, to Hawkeye: "Follow me."

Her manner was efficient rather than rude, but Hawkeye shot Trapper a look of mild alarm before following. Trapper swallowed the lump in his throat. He was being excluded for a reason, but he had little choice but to trust the outcome of whatever was to be discussed in his absence.

To his left, Audrey handed him a glass of orange juice.

"Don't sweat it, new boy," she assured him, patting his arm gently. "Dylan just likes to look out for people is all."

Trapper nodded and tried to take her words at face value, not read too much into the situation, not to listen to his paranoia. "I get that."

He waited patiently, the conversation halting as Audrey stepped away to serve a customer, cracking open two beers.

"He's a fine looking man," she commented off-handedly, nodding in the direction of the office. "Would have turned my head, too, if I weren't hitched."

Trapper's brow creased a little in confusion. "I thought you liked girls."

Audrey gave a non-committal shrug. "Guys, girls... the good Lord made a lotta beautiful people in this world. I can't say I'm lookin' to discriminate. You know what I mean?"

And Trapper smiled. "Yeah," he said softly, more to himself than to Audrey, who was busying herself behind the bar while making idle chitchat rather than seeking some deep and meaningful discussion on the nature of Eros. "I know what you mean."

The room at the back seemed to serve as kitchen, office and storage space all rolled into one. With a wrinkle of his nose, Hawkeye regarded the crates of beer and boxes of liquor bottles that were stacked up in the corners and on the counters. He couldn't help but wonder if Trapper was really thinking clearly in his theory that his recovery would be supported here. Or if he might even just be lying...

But Hawkeye shook the thought from his head. He wasn't in the game of playing second guessing with Trapper's sobriety. He had vowed to trust him.

Nonetheless, as he sat, he raised a point.

"Nice place you got here. I like what you've done with the booze. Now, just so you know, the guy I came here with..."

"He's a drunk. I know." Dylan didn't make eye contact as she seated herself at the table, palms resting on the surface, fingers drumming. "We get a lot of 'em around here."

Hawkeye blinked at her. "You do, huh?" He wasn't all that surprised, especially having seen Trapper's descent into self-destruction.

Dylan nodded sagely. "Enough to recognise who we need to cut off. Take a seat."

Hawkeye did so. In silence, Dylan retrieved a file at the end of the table, opened it, and laid it out on the surface of the table. There were a handful of forms inside, and, on one of them, Hawkeye recognised Trapper's handwriting.

"Audrey likes to take in strays. It's sorta her _hobby_. Me, I like to make sure nobody gets rabies. You get my drift?"

"You're asking me if Trapper's had his shots?"

"I'm asking if he's liable to hurt anybody."

"Anybody?"

"Number one, you. Number two, anybody else. Because if I hear a peep about him layin' a hand on any one o' my tenants, you included – you _especially_ – he'll be outta that apartment and sleepin' under a bridge, an' I don't give a damn what happens to him."

Pause.

"I'm willing to forgive a lot, but guys who get drunk and beat on the people they claim to love? Not on my fuckin' watch."

Hawkeye stared at her, feeling suddenly very... exposed in a way that he couldn't cover with playful jokes or innuendo. "You're asking me if I'm a battered husband?"

"Or whatever words you wanna use," Dylan replied, stony faced.

Swallowing, Hawkeye groped for whatever words he _might_ use for this, unsure which might cast some sort of bias on his story, one way or another. But try as he might, he just didn't know how to talk about that. There was so much he had yet to process, so much that had gotten in the way. The invasion of their apartment, Trapper's sudden vow to sober up... Hawkeye had yet to find the space in his own head to come to terms with the event that had triggered so much...

"It was one time..." The words escaped him before he could think on them, and already they sounded like an excuse. He sounded like a victim. "We had a fight. He was drunk. Everything..."

Trailing off, he looked at his hands as they laid on the table. His dexterous, surgeon's hands, scrubbed raw from washing glasses and mopping floors.

"He's said it won't happen again." Even as he uttered them, the words felt shallow.

The look on Dylan's face mirrored his own cynicism. "You really believe that?"

Hawkeye looked across the table at her – her earnest, concerned face; her world-weary eyes; her no-nonsense, tired-of-everybody's-bullshit demeanour.

Hawkeye sighed, leaning back in his chair. "In all honesty?" he began, brow arched in a cynical gesture. "I know too much about the world to really believe that. I know there's a near- _inevitable_ chance it'll happen again, and I know I probably sound like a _moron_ sitting here trying to vouch for the son of a bitch..." Running a hand over his face, Hawkeye looked across the table at her. "I do. I sound like a moron, don't I?"

Shrugging, Dylan shook her head at him. "I ain't said that."

"So what's all this about?"

Dylan sighed heavily, leaning forward on her chair, elbows on her knees. "Your boy's been real honest with us – we know he's got a drink problem an' we know he's turned on ya a coupl'a times. Now I'm not about to delve into the details there – that's your business, an' if he sorts himself out then great, good for him, but if not, I'm not gonna lose any sleep over some crumb who can't keep his hands to himself – but I _do_ need to know that my people are _safe_. An' I need to know that you're a free agent, because if you're not, then I can find a way for this application form to be rejected, and you can just hightail it outta here an' go wherever you need to go. Or I can hook you up with a room some place all on your lonesome. Just give me the word."

"You're asking me if I want to ditch him?"

"I'm offering you a way out – if you want it." She paused, reaching out and taking Trapper's application form from the table. "Say the word, and I can toss this in the trash, get you a fresh one. But not without your say-so."

Hawkeye paused. Seeing his choices laid bare like this, in black and white, starkly written in Trapper's doctorly scrawl, he couldn't help but feel foolish. There was every chance this was a terrible idea, that he was giving far too much, had waited far too long.

Inhaling deeply, he sat back, eyes fixed on the form. "If this all gets shot to hell," he said, his voice low, like he was almost embarrassed, "you'll have my back, right? I mean this... this isn't a one-time offer, right?"

Dylan nodded, holding the form out. "Any time."

Licking his lips, Hawkeye reached out, taking the form from Dylan's hand. "Let's just... see how things go from here." He picked up a pen, preparing to add his own signature to the contract. "And if at any point I truly _do_ lose my proverbial marbles, I'm giving you permission in advance to take me out back and rattle my head around on my neck a few times in the hopes of scrambling my brains back into place."

And Dylan gave him a thin smile. "Now, that I can do."

The noise and heat of the bar enveloped him like a blanket as Hawkeye stepped back through. Trapper was waiting for him, his back to the bar, his fingers gripping the edge of a table with white knuckles.

Hawkeye sidled up.

"You know, it's a good job you never tried to make a living as an impersonator, because that's a lousy impression of a guy who isn't shitting his pants."

Trapper looked up from his glass of juice, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. "How did it go?"

Striding up to the table, Dylan slid a tenant's copy of the lease over to Trapper with a little more force than was entirely necessary. "Your boy here's a prince," she stated firmly, with a slight curl of her lip. "You don't deserve him."

Trapper stared at her, and at the lease, but offered no argument to the contrary.

"Balance of seventeen fifty, to be paid on Friday, when you move in. Congratulations." She glanced at Hawkeye, and then to Trapper. "Talk about touched by an angel. Holy shit..."

The look on her face and the shake of her head told Trapper all he needed to know. And then, as he watched, she snagged Hawkeye by the arm.

"C'mon, angel. I'm gonna buy _you_ a drink."

Hawkeye immediately looked to Trapper. "Oh... but, I don't really think I should. Trapper's not supposed to–"

"An' 'e's _not_! Not on my watch. Come on."

She gave Hawkeye another tug, and Trapper waved him off. "I'll be fine. I'm watchin' people dance. Go on."

Without a further word, Hawkeye allowed himself to be led away, disappearing into the crowds, blue eyes fixed on Trapper even as he was ushered away.

The throngs closed in, and Trapper once again turned his back to the bar, and his attentions back to the swaying couples and gyrating singles. Wondered how long it would take for all this to seem _normal_ to him, for the novelty to wear off. Part of him almost didn't want it to, and yet he knew that the sooner the exotic became the everyday, the sooner he himself would feel less like an oddity.

He wondered how many of the other patrons had had the same feeling once.

As Trapper hovered at the edge of the dance floor, looking like the shy kid at the prom, he was acutely aware of the man in the leather jacket sidling closer. Trapper tensed. He knew when someone was giving him the eye, but usually the only _guy_ doing so was Hawkeye.

This, he realised with sudden clarity, might be something he would have to get used to.

Pushing the feelings of discomfort down, Trapper glanced over, and gave a polite smile.

The man now sharing his table smiled back. He was young – over ten years younger than Trapper – and dressed in a studded leather jacket and faded jeans, with a tight white shirt open to his navel.

"Hi," he said simply, with a smile that was practically the non-contact equivalent of French kissing.

"Hi," Trapper replied with a nod.

"You're not dancing," the man observed, with a playful sway of his hips. "You should be dancing."

"I'm not much of a dancer," Trapper apologised with a shrug, hoping it was enough of an excuse.

The man smirked and moved closer. "You should be dancing with _me_."

Something in between excitement and abject terror rushed through Trapper's system. "Actually I'm here with someone."

"Oh." The man nodded, putting a little distance between himself and Trapper. His eyes scanned the crowd, as if searching for Trapper's 'someone'. "Someone special?"

Trapper recognised the quirk of the eyebrow and the knowing smile that accompanied the question. He knew it well enough, as he'd used the same approach before, courting women for whom the line between adultery and fair game was determined by a diamond ring. By most people's standard's, Hawkeye was not 'someone special' – not in that sense – but... in every other?

"Yes. Yes, he is."

His would-be dancing partner, grinned, laughed, and clapped him on the back.

" _Jerome_!" Audrey's voice cut through both the chatter and the music as she approached the table, empty glasses clutched between her fingers. How she didn't break a nail was a wonder... "Would you get your paws _off_ that boy! Where's that man of yours?"

Jerome unfurled himself from around Trapper's shoulders and shrugged. "Beats me. Should be here any second, but hell if I know." He paused, shot Trapper one last sultry look, and flounced off. "See you, sugar." Trapper stared after, stunned and petrified and perhaps a little aroused.

"Never you mind him," Audrey dumped the glasses and grasped Trapper by the arm. "Jerome's a sweetheart, and near as married as folks get around here, but he _loves_ to flirt. Does it just to get a rise out of that beau of his, 'cept he's so level-headed it just washes right over. But... Jerome does love to try."

"I sorta noticed..."

"You wanna step out? Get some air? You look like you could use some."

Nodding, Trapper allowed himself to be led through the crowded bar, arm in arm with the glamorous bar maid. The crowds parted for them in a way Trapper had never seen in a drinking establishment, but upon glancing at the faces of the patrons, he realised: they weren't moving aside for _them_ , but for _Audrey_. It was hard to miss the respect she commanded, her presence and poise. Everything about her exuded _strength_. Trapper could only hope it was contagious.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author note:**_ _Super late posting this chapter - sorry guys! Long story short, I moved house this week and haven't really had much time in the evening to sit down and update. But the good news is that this part is DONE! The bad news is that the next part isn't, but watch this space! Bookmark me or the series for updates, and you can find me on Tumblr under hawkeye-piercintyre._

* * *

The air outside was fresh and crisp, refreshing to both the skin and the lungs. Audrey ushered Trapper round to the small space in between the bar and the neighbouring building. It could roughly be described as a parking lot, only there was room for maybe four cars in total, and one of those spaces was occupied by a dumpster. A large sign instructed residents and customers to park round the back or risk towing.

Here, Audrey lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall. She exhaled slowly, blowing a long column of blue-grey smoke into the night air, and sighing. "So," she asked, her voice a little rougher from her smoke, "how's your first day in the Combat Zone?"

Trapper thought on it. There was almost too much to process! Surely, too much to put into words. "Your wife doesn't like me," he stated at last.

"Dylan don't like nobody at first, until they give her a reason."

"She likes Hawkeye."

"Is that so?" Audrey's response gave nothing away, and the enigmatic smile she hid behind as she puffed away on her cigarette inspired more questions than it did answers.

"Says I don't deserve 'im."

"And you think you do?" Audrey's brows arched as she regarded him with a stern yet compassionate expression. She reminded him, suddenly, of his favourite schoolteacher.

Wincing, Trapper turned away. "No." His breath caught in his throat for a moment, the air too thick, his chest too tight. "Gimme a drag on that, would you?"

Audrey paused, as if thinking it over, and then proffered the cigarette in a smooth gesture. Trapper accepted. "Those things'll kill you," she warned, as Trapper inhaled deeply, the cherry glowing fiercely in the darkness of the little alley.

"Won't everything?" Trapper replied. God, he'd missed cigarettes! His soothing tobacco habit had been sacrificed in favour of dropping more and more of his income on booze. Now, he wished he'd stuck with roll-ups.

"Don't take Dylan to heart," Audrey stated with a small smile. "She looks out for people, doesn't like to see anybody takin' advantage. She may seem a sorta cold to you, but she's got a good heart. Just don't cross her. You won't like it if you do."

"Yes, ma'am," Trapper stated with a nod.

They stood awhile in the little parking lot, enjoying the mild night air and sharing the smoke. The tall buildings around them seemed to shield them from the rest of the city, but the distant sounds of urban life continued to creep through, muffled and distorted. This place seemed to exist in a world of its own, isolated and secluded. What little conversation Trapper could hear nearby was that of the Zone and its inhabitants: the raucous laughter of a group of working girls, and the flirtatious exchange of two young men departing the bar together.

And then, in the distance, sirens.

He saw Audrey startle, but she didn't say anything. She glanced down the alley, and, after a few seconds, assessed that the cops were heading elsewhere, and relaxed once more, her shoulders returning from around her ears.

"One more thing," she said at last, her voice strangely serious. "If ever you're at the bar and the lights turn white, you step _away_ from any guy you're with, you grab one of the girls, an' you start dancin' with her. Everybody here knows the drill, ain't nobody gonna slap you. You just... dance like you mean it, like she's your girl an' you only got eyes for her."

Trapper just stared at her.

"White lights means cops're comin'," she explained, her tone hard as nails, even at a whisper.

This place was a bubble, Trapper thought, enclosed but somehow fragile.

"I thought you had a deal goin'," Trapped noted, his voice soft, like he was afraid he might shatter the protection of the Zone.

"We do, but... once in a while somebody makes a complaint... they have to check it out." Audrey rolled her eyes, shaking her head in disdain. "So, we have a system. Everybody acts heterosexual for a half hour, an' nobody goes to jail." She paused, and took a long drag on her cigarette. "And me? I run out the back door." Turning, she dropped the cigarette onto the tarmac and crushed it under the heel of one tangerine-orange patent pump. "And I think I hear somebody..." Raising a finger, she inclined her head to the right, and sure enough, the sound of a motorcycle echoed down the alley.

The sound grew louder, and the Harley that was making it slowly slid into view around the buildings. It was a large tourer model, ridden by an equally large man in a leather jacket.

Trapper tensed, unsure what to make of this. Bikers were often trouble, and he couldn't imagine this kind of a man taking too kindly to the clientele of the bar, or indeed to Audrey, who had already stepped off the kerb to exchange words – or blows.

"Well, you got a lotta nerve!"

Audrey's voice cut through the night, even over the sound of the engine, and Trapper winced.

He didn't know what to do. Stay in case things got ugly? Go and get help? Step in and hold Audrey back?

The biker killed the engine, and removed his helmet. He had a beard, short clipped and neat, with a heavy brow and fierce eyes. He looked at Audrey with something approaching a scowl, and Trapper clenched his fists and took a step forward.

Audrey seemed not to notice Trapper, and instead of giving an inch, moved in close so her face was mere inches from the man as she stated clearly: "You're late!"

"Twenty-five minutes," the biker said. "Come on!"

"And you can stay twenty-five minutes extra for 'em!"

The biker groaned, shaking his head. "You're a hard woman, Audrey."

"I know." Audrey sounded proud. Smug, even.

And Trapper? Trapper was confused.

Glancing back at him, Audrey shot him a smile. "Relax, new boy. I'd like you to meet Dr. Jack Henry Cook, psychiatrist to the good people of the Combat Zone, and _my_ part-time bartender – who's almost half an hour late for his shift." She grinned at Jack, who gave a little shrug.

"I'll be right there," Jack assured her, securing his bike. "I had somethin' to attend to. My work doesn't always run to a schedule."

"Actually," Audrey said, her tone suddenly gentler, "why don't you take five? I'll see you behind the bar when you're ready. Mine's a Scotch Old Fashioned." With this, she smiled again, blew Jack a kiss, then turned on her heel to trot back to the bar. As she did this, Trapper thought he saw her – although he couldn't be sure, as the movement was lost in the flurry of Audrey's body language – nod briefly in his direction.

And then he realised.

He was being set up – with a psychiatrist.

The rattle of the fire exit door signalled Audrey's departure back into the bar, and Trapper was left alone with the large man with the motorcycle and the degree in head-shrinking.

Funny. The only psychiatrist Trapper had ever known was Sidney Freedman. Jack looked worlds away from Sidney, but then Sidney was worlds away from what he had expected.

"So," he said, moving a little closer as Jack dismounted and tucked his keys into his pocket. "You're a headshrink, huh?"

"That's the day job," Jack replied with a grin. "Not all that different from my moonlighting one."

Trapper laughed a little at that, and extended his hand. "Dr. John McIntyre, surgeon." And then, after a pause: " _Ex_ surgeon."

Jack took his hand, pumped it vigorously a couple of times, then released it. "Nice to meet you."

"It's funny," Trapper said with an awkward smile, "you don't look like a doctor."

"Neither do you," Jack replied with a slightly cocky grin.

Trapper glanced down at himself – grubby jeans and an old button down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. "I never wear my scrubs to a party," he quipped.

"Is that so?" Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Marlboros, lighting one with a large, silver zippo lighter bearing a Harley Davidson logo.

"Yeah." Trapper licked his lips, watching as Jack took a drag and exhaled smoke into the night air. "So uh... are you taking on new patients right now?"

Jack didn't seem remotely surprised, and Trapper couldn't help but wonder if Audrey was in the habit of shoving local basket-cases in Jack's direction on a regular basis. "I could fit you in," he said. "Depends when you're free, of course. A lot of my regulars have a routine now, and I don't like to disrupt that."

"That won't be a problem," Trapper replied with a nervous laugh. "I'm not working right now." And then, realising how bad that sounded, he quickly added. "But... I can pay. That is... uh... we can pay."

"Okay," came the reply. Totally unremarkable, unquestioning. Zero judgement.

"Situation's kinda fucked up," he blurted out in a hushed tone. "I'm livin' with... this guy. He's kinda... he's payin' my way, for now at least. I'm not sure..."

"I'm gonna stop you there, my friend." Jack held up a hand, and then, fishing in his pocket again, he produced a business card. "Don't tell me your personal business here, because any passing asshole can hear it, and I'm not on the clock. Call me on that number, make an appointment. My rates are cheap as hell because people around here don't earn shit."

Blinking, Trapper accepted the card. Jack's rates were listed on there, along with his phone number. And he wasn't kidding – they _were_ cheap as hell. "So uh... why do you _work_ around here?" he asked, a little suspicious.

Looking up, Jack spread his arms wide and beamed. "Why do you _think_?" He took a drag from his smoke and then, suddenly thoughtful, added, "Look, I could go interview with a hospital any time I like, go earn big bucks, get an office with my name on the door. But is it worth having to pretend? This way I get to live my life the way I want, helping people who need it the most. And if that means I gotta undercut the market, live in a tiny apartment on the rough side of town and work a couple of bar shifts from time to time, well then... that's the way it is. At least I can help the people I wanna help. And it's not like they have many options when it comes to the service I offer."

And Trapper nodded. There was something... disarmingly relaxed about the man, like nothing fazed him. But then... that was probably part of the job. Trapper remembered that Sidney Freedman had the same thing going on, in a different way, but Trapper didn't feel quite so... exposed around him. Then again, Trapper had never signed up as one of Sidney's patients, not even for warzone-related problems, and definitely not for longstanding alcoholism and a propensity for domestic violence towards his estranged gay lover. And now, in some idly curious part of his mind, Trapper wondered what Sidney might have said if he _did_.

Suddenly anxious, Trapper stepped a little closer, his hands clenching and unclenching, nails digging into his palms. "Your... service," he questioned, biting his lip. "You ain't gonna try an'... straighten me out, are ya?"

Jack's expression darkened a little, and for the first time, Trapper saw something that looked like discomfort on the man's face. "If that's what you want," he stated firmly, "you're looking at the wrong guy. I got a few _opinions_ about the docs that try and do that, but, situation as it stands at the moment, I'm just one _tiny fucking fish_ in a big goddamn ocean trying to swim against the current. Another reason why I quit the hospital." He gave a tight smile.

"I don't want that." Trapper shook his head firmly. "I feel like I only just started gettin' to grips with all this, feelin' like it might actually be... _part_ of me. Pretty stupid, right? Gettin' to be middle aged and I'm only just figurin' it out! I mean, how crazy is that?" He gave a nervous laugh.

But Jack merely smiled. "That's okay. Crazy is my specialty."

The rattle of the door made Trapper startle. They had company, and this wasn't a conversation Trapper wanted passers-by overhearing.

"Hello hello hello!"

And now, Trapper's heart did an entirely different backflip. "Hiya, Hawk."

"Your other half?" Jack deduced, nodding towards Hawkeye.

"Former," Trapper corrected. "But... yeah. That would be him." Trapper smiled. Even in the depressing shadow of estrangement, there was an almost euphoric _joy_ that came with such openness about who Hawkeye was to him! He didn't think he would ever get used to it! He almost didn't _want_ to!

Trapper's delight was clearly not lost on Jack, who nodded and smiled back. "We'll pick this up later. You have my number."

With those words, Trapper's unlikely saviour shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sauntered into to the bar, the studs in his leather jacket glinting on his retreating back.

Hawkeye watched him go, his smile fading slightly as he turned back to Trapper. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, you ain't. Come on out."

Hawkeye accepted the invitation, joining him at the kerb. "Who was that guy?"

For a moment, Trapper wondered if he was detecting a hint of possessiveness – something he hadn't seen from Hawkeye in a long time – but he wasn't about to flatter himself by dwelling on that. "As of this week, he's my therapist."

The look on Hawkeye's face said it all. Relief. Delight. Perhaps even shock. He gaped at Trapper for a moment, his jaw hanging open. And then, at last, his goldfish impression transformed into a broad grin. His eyes crinkled as he embraced the stunned Trapper in a fierce hug. He was laughing, and Trapper almost winced. The pealing cackle hurt his ear, but he didn't dream of pulling away. This was the first time Hawkeye had held him like this in months! He almost wanted to weep! Hesitantly, he closed his arms around him, feeling the strange familiarity of him once more, slight and lean, and a little bit bony. He closed his eyes, resting his head on Hawkeye's shoulder.

They stood, gently swaying on the sidewalk. In any other neighbourhood, it would be unthinkable! The whole thing felt like a bizarre dream!

All too quickly, Hawkeye pulled away, almost embarrassed by such a display. Trapper couldn't help but wonder if maybe they _were_ being a little melodramatic. After all, this wasn't the end by a long shot – it was just the beginning.

"Sorry." Hawkeye composed himself, realising that he might have overstepped a line. "I just… Trapper, that's great. You know what that is? That's _progress_! I'm excited for you!"

His enthusiasm was heartening, but Trapper cast a knowing glance in the direction of the glass of clear liquid in his hand. "How many of those have you had?"

"Oh, this is my fifth, but I don't think it's making any difference. See?" He held the glass out for Trapper to sniff.

Trapper's eyes widened. "It's _water_?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "Consider it solidarity. Also, we're broke."

"I thought maybe the girls had bought you a drink or two. You three seemed to be hitting it off."

"Dylan offered, but uh... I figured I'd be a rotten friend if I didn't at least join you on your wagon for a little while."

"That's real sweet of you. I appreciate it." Trapper was grinning from ear to ear. It was the tiniest of gestures, but somehow it meant the world.

"It's not sweet. You're ignoring the _broke_ part."

"I don't care!" Trapper laughed. His head was spinning slightly, and, a little overwhelmed, he moved away to sit on the kerb, his arms wrapped around his knees like a child. Hawkeye joined him. They sat quietly, the noise of the bar faded into a quiet hum of music and conversation, while around them, the din of the city buzzed on, blissfully unaware of the little pocket of a community that thrived and revelled in this particular corner beside Chinatown.

A car sailed past, and Trapper tensed, half expecting somebody to jump out and start a fight.

Nobody did. It continued on its way.

"You okay?"

It was Hawkeye who spoke, and Trapper breathed through his fear, and shot him a smile. "I'm great. I'm actually… I mean this is incredible!"

"It is, isn't it?" Hawkeye beamed, glancing back at the lights of the bar and the swaying silhouettes of bodies just visible through the windows. "Thank you for making me come out tonight. This was worth it."

"Don't mention it." Trapper smiled.

There was a pause, and then Hawkeye learned in. "But you could have just _told_ me, you moron! You didn't have to drag me all the way out here just to persuade me to give you seventeen bucks for a... well, for whatever it is they call bribing Boston PD so they don't go around locking up the locals."

"It wasn't just the seventeen bucks." Trapper flapped his hand dismissively. "I wanted you to see it for yourself. Not just the place, the _people_! Y'know, I feel like I made better friends here in a single afternoon than I have for the past nine years?"

"Oh, well you got that right. Those girls are amazing."

"Yeah, tell me about it!"

"I spoke to Dylan."

Trapper shivered a little, remembering Dylan's threat, which he didn't doubt for a second was a hundred percent sincere. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, she's a sweet lady."

Trapper laughed – he imagined Dylan probably _could_ be sweet, although given that she'd been the one laying down the law to him and threatening to kick his ass if he fucked up, he had yet to see it. "Well, I... can't say I saw that side of 'er, but she's a trooper, an' she gets us. An' Audrey's been... well, she's been just swell. Made me feel like... like I weren't alone, y'know. _And_ she makes me laugh!"

"Oh – she's _fantastic_! You know, I don't think I've ever met a lesbian drag queen!"

"Actually, she don't like the term 'drag queen'. She ain't in drag, that's just her, twenty-four-seven. Also, she's bisexual. Y'know, like us."

Hawkeye smiled. The addition of 'like us' hadn't slipped his notice. He knew that must have taken some courage for Trapper to just… come out with it like that. He knew how much he struggled with the labels used to describe his sexuality; saw the way he licked his lips before the statement, the way he swallowed after, like the words were a challenge to get out, like they were liable to come back and bite him. Seeing him like this, fighting to come to terms with himself, tentatively trying the term on for size instead of swearing or shuddering or spitting it like it were poison, Hawkeye felt a pang of sympathy.

Trapper glanced cautiously at him in the silence. "What?"

"Nothing. Just... never heard you say it like that before."

Trapper nodded, and fixed his gaze on the buildings across the street once more. "It's been a help, y'know? Talkin' to people. I know I got a long way to go, but... it's been a good day."

Hawkeye cast another glance towards the lights of the bar. "Sounds like you're making friends."

"Yeah…" Trapper stared thoughtfully into his glass of orange juice. It had been an eventful kind of a day, filled with so many new people and new ideas. He'd had no idea how much he'd been craving something like this until he'd come face to face with it! All these years and he'd never known what he was missing. "Hawkeye?"

"Mmm? Yeah?" Hawkeye looked over, tearing his eyes away from the window.

Trapper thought on his next words carefully, not wanting them to sound confrontational, not intending to make an accusation. "How come you never brought me to a place like this?"

Blinking at him, Hawkeye stared at him. "Really? You? You really have to ask that question?" Uneasy, Hawkeye pushed to clarify his point: "I mean, you didn't even want to use the _words_. You wanted to hide behind closed doors, keep it quiet, be 'normal', at least in public. I didn't think an underground gay bar would be the thing to break you out of your shell."

"Hm, I guess." Trapper looked away, clasping his hands together. He had to admit, he was probably right. Once again, Hawkeye had him all figured out.

"Besides, I didn't know this place was here. _You_ found this! All on your lonesome!"

"But you must'a had an idea…"

Hawkeye shrugged. "I heard on the grapevine there used to be a few places up near Scollay Square, but, as Judy Garland is my witness, I wouldn't know a single address. They don't exactly advertise – and places get shut down, raided, moved on. Urban renewal, city clean-ups, gentrification."

"But _you're_ the one with all the–"

"Trapper!" Hawkeye cut him off, laughing and shaking his head. "I've _never once been_ on the scene in Boston. I've been to _one_ bar – some underground joint under a railway arch in Chicago – and it wasn't exactly the best date in the world. I went in with one guy and left with someone else. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but, your own personal identity crisis aside, it didn't exactly seem like a good idea to bring my long-term squeeze to the sort of place I used to go during my internship to pick up guys whose names I couldn't remember!" A pause, as Hawkeye contemplated his next utterance. "And despite what _you_ think, I wasn't about to go shopping around for a replacement boyfriend!"

"Yeah, I know you weren't." Trapper frowned. He knew well enough he'd been a jealous son of a bitch for a while now. He knew deep down that he wouldn't have been able to handle a place like this until now. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something about Hawkeye, with all his experience and pride, that intimidated him. "I just... I thought you were… y'know… _experienced_. No offence."

"Experienced?" Another laugh. "Trapper, I fooled around! We didn't sample the nightlife! You don't exactly get in on the secret underground when all you're doing is making out in empty lecture halls and screwing in college dorm rooms. I realise I've got a few more notches on my homosexual bedpost than you, but don't go thinking I'm some sort of… connoisseur of gay culture, because I'm _not_."

"Still a damned site more'n me…" Trapper mumbled into his glass and polished off the last of his orange juice. "Y'know I'm jealous of you? You got all this worked out in your twenties! You figured out who you were, an' you dealt with it! An' here's me, comin' up on forty-two, an' I still ain't sure if I like guys in general or just _you_."

"Well, I can't help you there." Hawkeye gave a slightly uncomfortable smile. "I guess if you really wanna know, there's probably a fair few guys in there who'd be willing to help you figure it out."

"Yeah, maybe." Trapper cast a glance over his shoulder towards the bar. A handful of couples had met up and started to leave, some meandering off to find somewhere more private, one pair not seeming to care and simply necking in the porch. The sailor and his young paramour were long gone – Trapper had watched them swan off down the street without a care in the world, hands in one another's back pockets. It was a sight Trapper had never imagined he'd see. Yup, this place was hot alright. Not to flatter himself, but he probably _could_ score if he really tried… "I just ain't so sure I wanna get with some other guy." He glanced back at Hawkeye. "If I did, I reckon I'd just be reboundin', which probably wouldn't be great for anybody. So I guess it don't matter whether I'm a three-point-oh on the Kinsey scale or a one-point-three, 'cause it's all kind of academic anyways."

Hawkeye shifted a little uncomfortably. "Yeah, well… you'll get there."

"I guess…" Trapper's reply was little more than a grumble. He already felt like he'd said too much. He noted Hawkeye's nervousness and the way he looked away, and hastily sought to backpedal from what was possibly too emotional a statement for a point so early in his recovery. "An' just so ya know, I ain't tryin'a make ya feel bad."

"Oh, I know."

"Don't go thinkin' I'm tryin'a twist your arm, because I ain't about to do that."

"I _know_ you're not!" Hawkeye's reply was too abrupt, too sudden, and he instantly regretted his tone. Emotional as ever, he'd given too much away. "Would it surprise you to know the idea of you running off with somebody else doesn't _exactly_ fill me with the joys of spring?"

"I had noticed." Trapper hesitated with regards to that topic, hovering at the cusp of the conversation they both needed but were too afraid to have. He'd seen Hawkeye's jealousy flare in the bar earlier. Floundering a little, Trapper spoke at last: "I ain't plannin' on runnin' off anywhere." Again, he paused, licked his lips, took a deep breath, and plunged forward. "What about you?"

Hawkeye stared at him.

"I mean, just so as I have a fair warnin'?"

Trapper's question was unassuming, as neutral as it could be given their situation, but heavy with implication, and a plea for a reconciliation that Hawkeye just wasn't ready to give. Was this a discussion they had to have now? Was it even appropriate, so soon after their split? How long was long enough? "Am I... going anywhere? Is that what you're asking?"

"Well, y'know, we ain't a thing anymore. I'd hate to be the one holdin' ya back."

"To be honest, I… I didn't really plan this far ahead," Hawkeye confessed with a nervous shrug.

"That's okay, I didn't think I'd make it this far." Trapper laughed, covering the awkwardness.

"Yeah, me neither." Hawkeye wasn't laughing. He was solemn and remorseful and… Trapper thought maybe he caught a hint of sadness. "You've surprised me," he admitted, "which is… good, I guess." He licked his lips, looking away for a moment. "But now I'm not too sure how I feel about that."

Trapper took a breath. He didn't want to go dragging Hawkeye down any more emotional trajectories – he'd done that enough tonight – but for all this place had to offer, he needed to know where he was going to be standing in a month or two, when Hawkeye, too, had found new friends in this surprisingly diverse part of town, and was able to move on from being Trapper's keeper. He exhaled, and bit the bullet. "Look, you don't have to have all the answers. An' I know I ain't exactly got a whole lot to offer you. Deep down, I still figure you'd probably be better off with somebody who ain't got all this baggage to deal with – somebody who's comfortable with 'emselves – like... I dunno, like that… Quentin guy I know ya liked."

"Oh! Trapper, no!" Physically recoiling at the mere _mention_ of Quentin's name, Hawkeye screwed his eyes closed. His words were almost a shout, and Trapper stared at him, baffled.

"What? I thought you had a thing for him? I thought he was all… Mister Perfect Doctor Guy, college sweetheart and all round philanthropist?"

A look of repulsion shuddered across Hawkeye's features. "Not a chance! Believe me, I could not think of anything less appealing than shacking up with that… hair-dying, over-priced-car-driving, own-department-running, 'look at my wonderful life that has everything you don't have' nepotistic palm-greaser!" He spat the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth. "So don't go there."

"Oh, he really pissed ya off, huh?"

Hawkeye snorted. "Did you know I let him copy off me for two whole semesters? Because I thought he was cute! And he _knew_ it, too, so he kept cutting class, and then he'd turn on the charm, and I'd hand everything over. What a _rotten_ little fink! Taught me everything I know, but still…" He looked away, his right hand rising to his lips so he could chew on his thumbnail – a gesture which was not lost on Trapper – and spat a splinter of nail onto the sidewalk before turning away, arms folded, head down.

And suddenly, Trapper's delight turned to concern. "This ain't about college…"

Hawkeye shuddered. "No, it's not."

Trapper went cold. "What the hell happened, huh? There somethin' you ain't tellin' me?"

His voice was gentle, but his question made Hawkeye shake a little, and he wrapped his arms around himself as if he was somehow cold despite the heat of the summer evening. He thought long and hard about how to answer, realising there was no easy way to say what had to be said, and that if anything was to be said at all, he would have to say _all_ of it. ' _The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me_ …' He wiped his hands on his knees, his palms sweaty. "Okay, but just so you know I didn't plan for this to happen, alright?" Turning away, he ran a hand anxiously through his hair, unable to meet Trapper's gaze. "He made a pass at me. Okay?"

Trapper went cold. There was something about Hawkeye's tone that suggested this was only a fraction of the story, and he couldn't help but feel that, one way or another, he wasn't going to like the rest of it. "And?"

"I talked to him. About us. You know, things were bad, I needed someone to talk to. It was nothing at first, but… I don't know, things got a little… intense." He swallowed, licked his lips, and continued: "I don't know how it happened. We kissed. Or… or rather he kissed me." The words tumbled out of him, unstoppable, and he could only hope he was making the right call. He was in too deep now. "But I didn't try and stop him. Not the first time. _Second time_ I did, but uh… he didn't seem to pay much attention to that, so…" Hawkeye gave a weak shrug, casting a cautious glance in Trapper's direction before gazing into the gutter. "So, now you know why I quit the best job I've had since I left the army."

Trapper stared at him, his emotions an awful, confusing mix of horror, betrayal, and protective rage. He couldn't get the words out! "You're tellin' me," he managed to utter at last, "he forced himself on ya?"

"What? No!" Hawkeye's brow creased as he tried to get his head around Trapper's meaning. He hadn't really thought about it in those sort of terms. He hadn't particularly dwelled on it at all, until now, save for the flashes that invaded his thoughts at inopportune moments, making him shudder. At last, he shrugged. "Okay, a little. I guess. I don't… know. Whatever it was... this was one personal assistant who didn't fancy getting all that personal. So I… I told him to take his job offer and shove it. Which I guess is why I never made it past probation."

Trapper looked away, shaking a little as he released a long, steady breath, trying to calm himself. "Fuck."

"I knew you'd be angry."

"Of _course_ I'm angry! I hope he wraps his goddamn Mercedes around a tree, the son of a bitch!"

Hawkeye let out a cackle of a laugh – albeit one born out of resentment than good humour – before falling silent again. He tapped his glass of water against Trapper's orange juice. "Motion carried." He set his glass down on the kerb and, suddenly solemn, added: "Well, I guess we're even anyhow."

"Even?" Trapper felt his stomach sink at the memory of his own transgression, only one short week ago. "That weren't exactly somethin' I was lookin' to keep score on."

"Yeah…" Hawkeye gazed across the street, frowning. "We fucked up."

Trapper paused for a moment, thinking that statement over. " _I_ fucked up," he corrected. "You were doin' just fine on the fidelity front 'til I pushed ya away. You ain't ever given me cause to doubt you. An' it makes me feel kinda cruddy that I ever did. So I'm gonna chalk that one up to extenuatin' circumstances, right?"

A little surprised, Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "Where'd this high opinion of me come from all of a sudden?"

Meeting his gaze, Trapper shrugged. "I guess I'm just seein' ya a lot more clearly now I ain't squintin' at ya through the bottom of a beer glass."

And Hawkeye looked away again, but not before Trapper caught a glimpse of a smile.

And, for just a second, Trapper felt warm and _comfortable_ in a way he hadn't in a long while.

"So," Hawkeye said, dropping his head, "about that apartment."

Trapper went cold, and Hawkeye, once again, was all business.

Trapper hesitated to pick up his side of this conversation, swallowed hard, and steeled himself. He had no idea what had transpired between Dylan and Hawkeye, in that back room, other than that Hawkeye had agreed to cover the rent. But... beyond that? "What about the apartment? What's wrong?"

Hawkeye smiled, but narrowed his eyes. "It's a very nice apartment. Nice price. Nice location."

"I know." Trapper wet his lips. "And?"

"And a very nice establishment downstairs, full of nice, rich, varied clientele, possessing a colourful array of identities and orientations – fairies and butches and bears, oh my! – not to mention the single, solitary pachyderm sitting in the corner wondering why nobody seems to have noticed him." Hawkeye gave Trapper a pointed look.

Trapper almost laughed, were it not for the serious note of the conversation: Hawkeye did have such a way with words! "I noticed 'im. An' I get what you're hintin' at. So, let's say it."

"Trapper?" Hawkeye blinked a few times, as if trying to clear a mental path to Trapper's way of thinking so he could try and see his rationale. "It's a bar. The apartment is _over a bar_!"

"Over a _gay_ bar," Trapper clarified.

"I know, but did you think this through? I mean, coming here for one evening to bask in the fabulous glory of a slowly emerging community is one thing, but did I forget to mention that you've got an _addiction problem_? One bad day and you're gonna be down those stairs–"

"–An' straight into the supervisor's office for a stern talkin' to off one o' the girls. They _know_ I'm on the wagon here, an' the only thing I'm gettin' served in this place is soda water an' lectures. Besides –" he glanced up and down the street – "if things got bad, I could walk into any one o' these places. It's Boston, Hawk! Can't get away from it. May as well learn to live with it on my doorstep, because it sure as hell ain't goin' anywhere."

Hawkeye fell silent, but the look on his face was almost _pained_. "Are you sure?"

"Hawk, I'm _sure_! You've seen this place! You've met the girls!"

"I know..."

"It ain't about the bar – it's about everythin' else this place has got goin' for it."

Hawkeye glanced up and down the street. "Yeah, Chinese food and strippers always make for a top notch location." Trapper laughed and gave him a playful nudge. Hawkeye thought for a moment, then smiled. "Okay. If an apartment in Gaysville Massachusetts is the thing that's going to help you deal with, then... let's try it for a few weeks." He clasped his hands and wrapped his arms around his legs as he crouched there on the kerb, quiet and thoughtful. "Seventeen bucks, due on Friday. And a payslip, given that I'm subsidising your rent."

Trapper chuckled. "That's good. Because I already gave them a hundred and forty bucks."

"I notice you'd signed the lease, too."

"I did."

"But we can still back out. Dylan said. It's not binding until Audrey takes it in to the landlord. You can take a couple of days, think it over." He gave Trapper a look.

"Hawkeye?"

"If you in _any way_ hesitant, any way at all..."

"Hawk?" Trapper smiled, and gave Hawkeye's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure." So there it was. It was a done deal. Between the two of them, they'd secured a small apartment over a gay bar in the Combat Zone of Boston, safe and infamous all in one. Hawkeye glanced at Trapper. Trapper nodded. "Thanks, Hawk."

"But… just go with me on this... even if they don't pour you a drink here, isn't there a temptation? Just walking in there?"

"Hawkeye." His tone was firm, his expression uncommonly sober. It was a good look on Trapper, Hawkeye decided. But his words sent a cold shiver through him. "Just stop. You don't have to do this anymore."

"Do what? What was I doing? I wasn't doing anything."

Trapper took a deep breath. "I ain't your responsibility."

The cold shiver traded up to an unpleasant sinking feeling that Hawkeye neither liked nor understood. "I never said you were, but I'm just… y'know, I'm…"

"An' what I'm sayin'," Trapper stated slowly and carefully, "is that I ain't your patient an' I ain't your boyfriend. I'll be okay. An' if I ain't, then that's my problem."

Acquiescing, Hawkeye relaxed, the emotion vanishing from his face, like he'd just forced it back into the bottle. "Right. Of course."

"So... how do you wanna play this?"

His question, loaded with serious implications of a life-changing nature, was worded so casually, so utterly without pressure. In fact, it was spoken more with the presumption that Hawkeye was about to up and leave, and Trapper was gently offering to walk him to his car. Hawkeye's brow furrowed. "Good question."

"I mean, as of Friday, I'm all set up here for a month. You figure you're gonna be payin' my rent for a while? Fine. I'm grateful. But for how long?"

Hawkeye sighed deeply, staring across the street. "Well... I'm not sure."

"Well, be sure. Because I ain't gonna be foolin' around here. I'm gettin' better, an' I'm gettin' a job. You'll see. So, gimme a timeframe. A cut-off point. Somethin' I can work towards. An' then you can move on."

"Move on? You're kicking me out already? We only just signed up for a new place! With... with the bisexual lady in charge and her butch wife! And... everything!"

"I'm just sayin'..." This was backfiring, Trapper realised. Hawkeye was looking at him like he'd just kicked his favourite puppy. "I mean, you don't wanna be stickin' around forever, hangin' around with a former... well, _whatever_ I am to ya. You got your own life."

He tried to be noble. He tried to be the one to lay out a sensible, workable plan, with reasonable limits and a suitable timeframe. No matter how much it hurt, he had to do what was best for Hawkeye.

And Hawkeye, being Hawkeye, laughed. It was the only way he knew to realise the strange, nervous tension that was creeping through his body. Feeling strangely short of air, he tugged at his collar. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Keep doin' what?"

"Trying to get me to leave. Every time we sit down and have a nice talk, or spend twenty minutes together, you try to push me out the door!"

"That's not what–"

"Or set me up with some other guy?"

Trapper shrugged, bristling a little but trying not to let his irritation get the better of him. "It's what you _want_ , isn't it?"

"What? Another guy?"

"To get out!" Trapper heard his voice crack. He felt the tears stinging his eyes. "I ain't holdin' out much hope for us as a couple, an' the last thing I wanna do is keep ya here any longer than I have to. You've done so much, more than I deserve, an' I ain't about to take advantage o' that. So when you're ready to leave, I'm just sayin'... I'm not gonna stop you. I'd just like some warnin', so I can get myself together."

And Hawkeye fell silent. He stared at Trapper with curious eyes, watching him struggle to hold back, listening to the hitch in his voice as he tried so hard to let go and move on, and to do so gracefully and without anger.

Why was it that even after so much progress, on a night when they had achieved so much, it still felt like an argument was only a misspoken word away?

Hawkeye thought carefully. "You know what?" he began, hesitating and careful with his words, "there were a lot of times these past few weeks where I wanted nothing more than to load up the car and get the fuck out of Massachusetts. I thought about that, I really did."

Trapper waited, hanging on his words like a knife edge. "And now?"

"Now?" Hawkeye hesitated, feeling the surge of anger drop and the tension ease. "I'm not so sure."

Trapper's eyes widened. His hands shook ever so slightly. And yet, he tried with every fibre of his being not to react. "You wanna stay?" There was such hope in his voice, such promise in Hawkeye's words, and yet… "I mean... I know we talked about this. Do you want... to give it another shot?"

"See, I don't want _that_ either." Hawkeye spoke with haste, quickly shooting down Trapper's hopes in flames. "But that doesn't mean I want to uproot my life, abandon you to the will of the fates and give up all hope."

"Hope? You're tellin' me there's hope now?"

Hawkeye stopped, like he'd said something that he hadn't mean. Or said something he _had_ meant but hadn't meant to say. Or didn't know he meant. "I don't know," he replied softly, sad yet sincere. "I really don't."

"You don't _know_ if you want me back or not?"

A pause. Hawkeye looked away, rubbing at his knees with his palms. "No," he said at last. "Right now I don't. But to tell you the truth I..." Another moment of silence. Trapper sat, and waited.

"What _do_ you want?" Trapper pushed, gently.

Hawkeye turned away. Trapper's questions were too probing, too intimate. It was too soon to be sharing this. One wrong phrase and he might give away too much, leave Trapper clinging to a life raft that wasn't yet seaworthy. "I _want_ to _want_ you back."

Trapper baulked. He didn't know what to do with that. As much as he adored Hawkeye, he could be so vague at times, so cryptic in his flowery words and poetic turns of phrase that Trapper didn't know where to start with unravelling his meaning. "You're gonna have to explain that one to me, Hawkeye."

"I mean... I like the _idea_ but can't say I want the reality until I got a better idea of how that reality's work out! Things were _bad_ , Trapper! _Really_ bad! For a long time! I don't want to go back to that with the past two years hanging over our heads. I want you to ask me that question and for me to be able to give you a straight answer without... scrambling around in the wreckage of my own head trying to piece together a coherent feeling! I want to feel like it's _absolutely_ the best thing for the both of us. And then... and then I could just sweep you onto that dance floor and put a slow song on the jukebox and we would... we would dance together in front of all of those people... and then you'd kiss me and it would feel _right_. Because it _would_ be!"

Trapper nodded, his eyes stinging a little at the image Hawkeye had just painted. "But it ain't, is it?" he replied, his voice little more than a whisper.

Hawkeye swallowed. "No. It's not."

Trapper gave a melancholy laugh and turned away. "An' you're not gonna... do any of that stuff, are ya?"

"No, Trapper. I'm not."

Taking a deep breath, Trapper forced a laugh. "There'd be no complaints from me if ya did!" His voice trembled as he spoke, and all humour was lost. Instantly, he regretted his words. This conversation had gone to a place he shouldn't have been to. He wasn't sure who was responsible, but either way, he knew he had to be the one to stop it. This wasn't fair on either of them. "Sorry," he said in a whisper. "That wasn't... I shouldn't have said that."

"Yeah, I know." Hawkeye shot him an apologetic look. "I just... It's been a _week_! And not a great one. I mean, cleaning up vomit, stopping you from clawing your way through the walls, and trying to get sedatives down your throat – these are not the things true love is built on. But there have been… moments."

"Moments?"

"Moments when it looks like you're turning back into somebody I _like_. I can't make a decision based on seven days, a chunk of which you spent, unconscious, cranky, or screaming at the TV. But this? Right now? What we are at this precise minute, and… and when we sat out by the beach eating ice cream? I _like_ this. So, can we just... be _this_ for a little while longer?"

Trapper exhaled, and nodded, his hope fading but not forgotten. He smiled. "Sure," he said, leaning a little closer and gently nudging Hawkeye's shoulder with his own. "Let's be this."

There was, as always, so much left unsaid. But Trapper feared any further conversation might just take them round in ever-decreasing circles until frustrations and tempers ran high again, and that wasn't something Trapper wanted. Not tonight. And so, for the time-being, 'this' would have to remain an unknown; something unnameable and mysterious, caught between a romance and a friendship; something a little more than a fleeting arrangement while Trapper detoxed and sought a more permanent address, but without the certainty of a future. 'This' still held a whisper of a promise of a chance, but that was all, and that would have to be enough. Although, Trapper had to admit, as he sat in quiet contemplation beside his former-lover-slash-roommate, the question of what precisely 'this' was, hung over him, unanswered and unasked, and probably would remain so for quite some time.


End file.
